


The Lioness and the Wolf

by Arden (ArdenLa)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, I'm Sorry, Inquisition AU, Medium Burn, Slow Burn, Solas is an Egg, uhhhh this might be a slow burn now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdenLa/pseuds/Arden
Summary: In the foreground of history was Ozeni Adaar, proud leader of the shining Inquisition. Behind her, a former hero and a lost god found solace in each other.A story about Solas and Eirwen Surana, two surprisingly similar people who fall in love --reluctantly but hopelessly.





	1. All Heretics

“A great hero of legend arrives in our hour of need, lending her support to the momentous cause of the Inquisition.”

Eirwen turned away from the colorful wall murals to look at their creator: a bald, barefoot elven man in ragged clothes, standing straight with his hands held behind his back. Ozeni had given her a brief description of the other members of the Inquisition, and if she remembered right, this was likely Solas the Fade expert. Learning there was an apostate besides the Inquisitor herself was surprising, as the Chantry frowned upon unshackled mages; if anyone needed more proof that they were all heretics, here he was. 

“High praise. I hope I can live up to it.” She held her hand to him and he shook it, gripping tight enough that she could feel the coarseness of his fingers against her own. As she pulled back, her lips settled into her usual smirk. “Eirwen Surana, though it seems you already know that much.”

He smiled, polite but tight, more neutral than expressive. “Of course. You are, after all, something of a public figure. I am Solas, though I suspect the Inquisitor may have warned you there was an apostate in our midst.”

Eirwen snorted and rested her hands on her hips. “She did, and I was quite terrified until she assured me there were enough Templars to keep any potential demons at bay.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged. She shifted her weight, uncomfortable now that she knew her joke didn’t land. “Yes, well, she did make me promise to keep my demon-summoning to a minimum. I trust that, as a Warden, you have had ample preparation in protecting yourself from wayward spirits?” There was a note of what was supposed to be sarcasm in his tone, but what she heard was more bitter and harsh than that. 

“Not as much as most people would expect. I would assume most Wardens receive more training, but I didn’t have much time with them.”

“Not even after the Battle of Denerim?”

Her amiable smirk felt to an uncomfortable grimace and she shook her head. “Er, no. I was mostly on my own after that.”

“Ah.” He considered this for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly, then relaxed and looked up at the murals. “You have spoken to Leliana, I take it?”

“About what, specifically?”

“She and Cassandra both advocated for you as Inquisitor.”

Eirwen barked out a loud, disbelieving laugh, startling Solas. She shook her head and covered her mouth, apologizing through a smile. “That is a very dumb idea. Here I thought Leliana was keeping an eye on me.”

“You lack faith in your own leadership?”

“You lack faith in Adaar’s?”

Solas shook his head, frowning. “No, of course not. She is a capable woman and a talented leader.”

“But?”

“But what?”

She shrugged. “I thought it sounded like you had a ‘but.’”

He sighed heavily. “In my dreams I have seen your bravery. You bore the torch at Ostagar and fought beside your people to lend them hope and strength. You lived, and your survival promised them a future.” He looked at her. “You inspired a nation to fight an unfathomable evil.”

“You saw all of that in the Fade?”

“And more.”

It was her turn to sigh. “You are considered the Inquisition’s expert on the Fade, correct?”

“Yes…”

“Then I don’t need to tell you how misleading it can be. There are many very good reasons I am not the Inquisitor.” Her voice fell. “It may be best to leave it at that.”

He was quiet for a moment, and she looked back at the murals. As she started to ask him about them, he spoke up again. “There is still some truth to it, though.” She said nothing, and he went on. “Have you ever seen yourself through the eyes of spirits?”

“I… was not aware that was possible.”

“It is difficult, but a mage of your talent could manage it.” He glanced at her. “They may show you a new side to yourself you had not envisioned.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing against the rough paint of the mural. “Why did you make this?”

He stepped forward, standing in line with her now as they both looked over his work. “To record the success of the Inquisition.”

“We have books for that. Why this, here?”

“It is a reminder of what has been accomplished.” He turned slightly, looking back at what he’d already completed, then faced the bare walls that covered most of the rotunda. “And what is left to come.”

She smirked again. “You may run out of room. This Haven part takes up a lot of space.”

He smiled, more genuine this time, and tilted his head back to look up at the library and the rookery above it. “Perhaps when its task is done, the Inquisition will do as no other organization of its size has and lay down its swords. Skyhold could be a great library, or a waypoint for travelers.”

“Or a summer home for Adaar.”

“Ha!” He laughed, then cleared his throat and shook his head, covering his mouth for a moment as if embarrassed at his outburst. She smiled, glad she could get a positive reaction from him. “I suppose it would be ill-suited for a winter home.”

“Most choose to winter where there isn’t snow year-round.” She sighed and chuckled, shaking her head. “You’ll have to tell me more about your work here, Solas.”

“I would be happy to.” He nodded to the doorway, where a young woman in servant clothes stood awkwardly. “You have an appointment?”

“With Josephine.” She pursed her lips. “Apparently drinking yourself into a stupor and passing out in the tavern is ‘unsightly.’“

“Ah… I imagine that might not be ideal.” His brows furrowed. “Still, that cannot be all she needs you for.”

“The rest is confidential.” She winked at him, and he blinked. “I’ll see you later, then?”

He nodded, his face a mixture of amusement and confusion. “Another time then, Warden Surana.”

“Please,” she said as she started on her way out. “Just Eirwen is fine.” Her boots clicked against the stone floor, echoing through the quiet of the rotunda. High above her, Leliana’s crows cried and shed feathers that drifted toward the ground.


	2. The Fade Scholar

Eirwen stumbled, fell, then collapsed into the long, dry grass at her feet. Her fingers shook as she pressed them to her side, desperately trying to hold in the blood pooling against her shirt. Darkness tinged the edges of her vision and the sunset in front of her blurred into a mess of orange and yellow. She knew she had to heal her wound, but her magic was never meant to fix herself. Even here, where the Veil was thin, she struggled to reach past it and pull the cool touch of a healing spell to her command. 

Grimacing, she rolled on to her back and freed her bag from her hip; she had a strip of fabric inside that she used to hold her hair at night. Despite her dulled dexterity she managed to pull it out and stretch it above her head. She breathed in and out, slowly, staying focused and awake despite the weakness exhausting her muscles. With a surge of determination she sat up, gritting her teeth, and wrapped the band of fabric tightly around her waist. She pressed down over the wound, wrapping around as many times as she could before tying it off at her abdomen.

She eased herself back down, closing her eyes as she carefully let her head rest on the ground. The warmth on her hand lessened, and when she next looked at her palm, the blood was mostly dried. But her head still burned, the pulsing pain so strong that she could barely see through the purple and black spots in her vision. 

If she couldn’t actually heal herself, she could at least put the pain away until she was safe. She raised her hands to her head and reached out again, relying on her magic to ground her as she sought the power for a different type of spell.

Adrenaline suddenly jolted through her veins and she gasped, shaking in the grass before the pain dulled to a quiet ache. She used her new, artificial energy to raise herself from the ground and stumble to her feet. 

Every step hurt, but the spell made her better. She just needed to find a farm, then she could harass the owner into helping her. But she even as she walked miles from where her blood stained the grass, she saw nothing but burned out buildings and torched cropland. As the sun crossed the midpoint of the sky her spell wore off, leaving her to stumble forward on her unsteady feet on willpower alone. She couldn’t take anymore –as night fell around her, she dropped to her knees, closed her eyes, and let silence envelope her aching body.

She could have slept for seconds or days. Time vanished in the fog of her pain and only returned in drowsy, confused trails as she felt a presence by her side. Something touched her head and she started moving, only to be hushed by a soft, gentle voice. “You are very badly injured. Hold still, and I will help as much as I can.”

She relaxed, keeping her eyes closed. Cool, soothing magic washed over her, sinking through her pain, breaking it apart. A deep, pleased moan left her lips. Rough and heavy hands brushed over her forehead, and she flinched instinctively as they eased toward the impact sight on her skull. But there was no pain, and again she relaxed. 

Finally, she looked up at the person helping her. The apostate, the Fade scholar. She drew his name from somewhere in the mists of her memories. Solas. “What… what are you doing out here?”

“That is your first question?”

She swallowed hard. “It’s not the only one.” She vaguely recalled something about him being absent from Skyhold, away on some soul-searching journey, but she couldn’t remember why or for how long he was supposed to be gone. 

He raised his gaze from her and looked out over the broad yellow fields around them. His fair skin, to her damaged gaze, was not unlike the pale, cloudless blue sky behind him. “I was on my way back to the Skyhold. I had some… personal business to attend to.”

She closed her eyes again, the light making a dull ache in her skull. “Alone?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “It was not exactly a matter I could discuss with company.”

“You have a captive audience now.”

She could hear the edge of a smile in his voice, a slight gentleness poking through the bitter bile of loss. “It is alright, da’len. It… the matter is finished, now.” More cooling magic washed over her and she exhaled shakily, sinking more comfortably into what she thought was the ground but then realized, with a dulled surprise, was his lap.

“Why did you help me?”

“What? Why would I not help you?” He sounded genuinely offended, and she shrugged. 

“I probably looked pretty dead, it might not even have been clear who I was, you’re under no obligation to help me… the list goes on.”

“You’re a member of the Inquisition. I would have done the same for anyone wearing Inquisition armor.” There was a bit of defensiveness in his tone, and she opened her eyes to see his indignant expression. “Besides, I am not heartless. I try to help when I can.” She hummed, then sighed and started to shift. “Wait–” he started, but she waved him off. “Here.” He offered her his hand, and she gripped it tightly as she eased herself out of his lap and on to her knees. “Careful.” She grit her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut for a minute, then swallowed hard and steeled her nerves. Her hand left his to rest on her legs. “What happened to you?”

“We were ambushed. The Freemen here –dumb bastards– they attacked us and wiped out most of my men. The ones they didn’t get are being held… somewhere.” She shook her head slightly, her features settling into a bitter scowl. “How the shit I managed to let us get ambushed in a field is beyond me…”

“There are many things to be aware of out here. Rifts, Fade-touched animals… reanimated corpses, for some reason.”

“There’s no excuse.” She spoke harshly, her tone cutting. “I was being inattentive, as usual.” With a grunt, she pushed down on the ground and started to stand. “Now I have to get them back.”

Solas stood quickly, supporting her. “In your condition? No. We should find an Inquisition camp, send word to Skyhold…”

“They’re my men. I can’t fail them twice.”

“You are being unreasonable. They are likely unaware you even survived, much less expect a rescue.”

She tried to walk, and he hooked his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t be alone. “I have to.”

“You have to rest, or you won’t be able to help anyone.”

“I already feel better.” Her unsteady steps said otherwise. “Just a couple hours and I can go after them.” She half-dragged him, strong even in her injured state, and he stumbled before catching himself and sighing. 

“Slow down then, at least.” She listened to him, for once, and he helped her shift her weight so she could lean on him for support. “Let us find somewhere safer, make camp, and then decide.”

“I already decided.”

“Eirwen, please.”

“Fine,” she said begrudgingly, and he helped lead her back into the woods at the edge of the field. They walked together, slow and careful, until they found a dense copse of trees with low-hanging branches that might shield them from sight. Despite his insistence, she refused to sit down and let him make camp. Her magic was still working, though every part of her felt weak, and she used it to help make their fire and something of a shelter. 

When they had a space resembling a camp, he made her lay down and accept his healing again. She complained at first, still insisting she was fine, until the effects of the spell made her drowsy enough to sleep and he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. This would do for now, but they needed blankets and bedrolls or she would hardly improve. He’d reached the limit of what his magic could do –he’d never been a healer. What she truly needed she would not find out here, but at least he could keep her stable until she agreed to get help. 

He had some food left in his bag, but not enough for both of them. Luckily, he recognized some nearby mushrooms and edible roots, then cut them with her dagger so she could get her strength back up.

There was more to his actions than altruism, and he figured she could already tell that he needed her healthy so they could watch each other’s backs in the Dirth. His assessment of this area was not an understatement, and if they wanted to survive and make it back to a real Inquisition camp then she’d need to be in fighting condition. He was confident enough in his ability to keep just himself safe, but if she could barely walk, much less fight, she was just another target for wayward demons. 

The smell of cooking food woke her up, and she grumbled incoherently before rolling over to look at him. “What’s for lunch?”

“I think we are closer to dinner…”

“What’s for… whatever?”

He snorted and shifted, letting her see what was cooking in the fire. “Whatever I could find. Roots vegetables, some mushrooms…” She looked it over, apparently decided it was to her liking, then relaxed back into the leaf-lined bed beneath her. “Unfortunately, all I have for flavor is salt.”

“I like salt.”

“You are in luck then.”

They were quiet for a while, the food slowly cooking as she dozed in their shelter. When she spoke again, he couldn’t help but smile a bit at the almost-drunken weakness in her voice. “You’re being very kind to me.”

“You sound suspicious.”

“Kindness is suspicious.”

“We are comrades, da’len. Any Inquisition member would be expected to do this for you.”

She squinted at him. “Maybe in theory. They wouldn’t, though.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Experience.” She started to sit up, and he tensed to help her before she waved him off. “Maker, I’m fine. Just have a bit of a headache is all.”

“Yes, well, you had a skull fracture.”

Her eyes widened. “Liar.”

“A minor one, but a fracture nonetheless. What were you hit with?”

“I barely remember. Probably a mallet.” She shuddered. “I hate to think of it. I haven’t been hit that hard in years.” The same bitterness from before invaded her tone and she scowled. “So stupid. Adaar never should have let me do that.”

“Your determination to find them alone is proof that her faith in you is not misplaced.” This part of her was curious to him. He’d seen the strength with which she fought darkspawn and lead her party into battle in the Fade; she was far from unworthy. There was a before, and there was an after –something had changed her, made her doubt herself beyond reason. 

“No.” She shook her head, then closed her eyes. “I’m best under Josephine, as an ambassador of sorts. A piece to move around the board. If I can help at all, it’s through my name and story alone. I should never move the pieces myself.” She crossed her legs. “How much longer until the food is done?”

He poked at the plate with a stick, rolling over some of the roots. “A few minutes, at most.”

“Good.” She took her flask from her side and brought it to her lips. He frowned at her, but said nothing. 

“Want to try it?” He asked, and she raised an eyebrow before nodding and scooting forward. With great care, he eased one of the mushrooms off the cooking rock and on to a leaf. She smirked as she took it, waited, then ate it once it was cool enough.

“This is the elfiest thing I’ve ever done.”

He frowned heavily, not appreciating the joke. “You sound like Sera.”

Eirwen shrugged, swallowing her bite. “Must be our shared heritage.”

“I was under the impression you were raised in the Circle.”

She held up a finger and shook her head. “Partially, yes. But I spent the first nine years of my life in the Denerim alienage. From what I understand, Sera was also born there.”

He scoffed, turning back to the fire and the food, still scowling deeply. “Not that she cares. Sera eschews all things Elvhen, even what little could have been offered to her in the slums.” He paused, looking across at the leaf Eirwen still held in her hand. “In any event, what you see as Elvhen would be an insult to the true legacy of the People. So much of what once was has been lost in favor of ignorance and fear.” Most men, in such a frustrated state, would take their anger into the task at hand. But Solas was no less gentle in how he turned their meal, the stick he used just barely prodding a root onto its side. He shook his head, his voice tightening. “This is hardly Elvhen.”

Eirwen was quiet for a moment, watching him, then shrugged. “Maybe I should have said ‘most Dalish’ thing I’ve ever done.”

He laughed short, humorlessly. “At least you can recognize the difference.” He sat back, relaxing somewhat, and held out his hand for her leaf. “It is done.”

They ate in near-silence. She didn’t much care for his frustration over the current state of Elvhen culture. If she had the desire, much less the energy, she might have pointed out how pointless it was to speak of the glories of the past when their people were being burned alive for minor slights against nobility or hunted like wild animals in their last refuge from human oppression. She might have defended her own upbringing, might have taken issue with his dismissal of alienage elves and pointed out that at least they were trying. 

She chewed hard, venting her anger into the tough, salty root in her mouth, and said nothing. Arguing with her healer wouldn’t do her any good, especially not when he felt so much stronger than she did. Surely, anything she said would just piss him off more. 

Eventually he wandered off, leaving her alone to rest in the trees. He left behind a barrier to keep her safe, though he promised he’d be back long before it wore off. It didn’t matter to her either way, because as soon as she laid back down and got comfortable, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. With a Stick

Something prodded at her side, and suddenly Eirwen awoke with a sharp jolt of pain. She gasped and instinctively twisted, her fist flying out and whizzing through the air. 

“Fenedhis! You almost hit me!” 

“What --what are you doing?” She hissed in pain and glared at Solas in the dark. “Why are you touching me?!”

He was on his knees, hands hovering several inches from her body, his face set into a deep frown. “You were yelling in your sleep. When I looked over, I noticed the wound on your side began bleeding badly.” She started to shift, not believing him at first, and he gave her space to press her palm into the bandaged, warm hole in her side. 

A quiet curse left her lips and she shook her head. Evidently it was worse than she thought, as her bindings must have come undone in her sleep. “If you get any blood on yourself, wash it off as soon as possible. Do not get any in your mouth. Just --trust me.”

Wordlessly, Solas nodded and raised his hands. She relaxed so he had easier access to the wound, and the same cooling spell from before washed over her as she let out a shaking exhale. They were quiet as he worked on her, their heavy breaths drifting into the near-silent forest around them. Slowly, he eased her forward, then leaned close so he could remove some of her bandages from earlier and replace them with his own. Of course, the fabric she’d used was never meant to absorb blood, but the backpack he carried with him had better, stronger material that felt more supportive around her sides and at her back. Only once he helped lay her back down, his touch so gentle, did she speak. 

“What was I yelling about?” Her voice was lower now, kinder. He leaned over her slightly, still frowning, and his brows knit into a kind of concern. 

“It was not quite intelligible. Perhaps... I believe you thought you were lost. It sounded almost as if you were hoping someone might hear.”

She smirked. “I imagine that concerned you, considering we’re trying to stay relatively hidden.”

“Yes, but... I feared something in the Fade might be attacking you. Sometimes, when we are weak...”

“You thought I was fighting a demon?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Maker, you’re a right Templar aren’t you?”

“I suppose you would know,” he replied dryly. “I thought perhaps...” He stopped, shook his head, then went on in a gentler tone. “I thought perhaps we might be in danger.”

“No.” The humor left her voice now, and she looked away from him for a moment before grunting softly and trying to shift on to her healthy side, facing away from him. “I believe the demons I see are only a threat to myself.” She paused, half-expecting him to return to his bedroll. When he didn’t, she clearly her throat and went on. “I wasn’t aware I was dreaming at all. I don’t remember anything.”

Without looking at him, she couldn’t see how his jaw tightened, how his shoulders tensed. “Not all dreams connect us to the Fade. Some are a fragment of our past, returned to haunt us even when we think we’ve found respite. For these, our own mind is a prison, our subconscious where the battle rages on.” He swallowed. “Memories are... perhaps more difficult to escape from than even the most powerful of demons.”

“At least you can hit a demon with a stick.”

He snorted, but his smile was distant, his eyes cold. “Yes.”

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. “You haven’t spent your whole life wandering the countryside dreaming, have you?”

He was quiet for so long she wasn’t sure he’d answer. Then, “No. I have seen the ways of war myself. It is an ugly, brutal thing.” He paused. “But often necessary.”

“For me, yes. But this?” She gestured vaguely, but he understood which disenchanted Orlesians she was indicating. “This is pointless. Celene now, Gaspard tomorrow... What difference will it make for us?”

He did not reply, unsure of which “us” she referred to. Instead, he started to stand. But he thought of something, and he stopped to look at her. “What was it like? Fighting an enemy without a soul?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know the answer. We’ve fought Darkspawn in the Inquisition.”

“Yet you are supposed to be the expert, as I understand.”

“On killing darkspawn?” She laughed bitterly. “Hit it until it dies. Not exactly the stuff of great expertise.”

“You know that isn’t everything.”

Despite her pain, she turned to look at him over her shoulder with an expression between curiosity and suspicion. “What if it is?”

“You throw yourself into battle as if you will die tomorrow. You take no pleasure in it, but not like myself. For you, death is a duty.”

“That’s the motto, yes? ‘In death, sacrifice’?”

“Yes. The Grey Warden motto.” He let out a shaking breath, then sighed. “I apologize. I had meant to ask... do you ever envy the simplicity of it? Compared with killing Orlesian deserters or Tevinter zealots?”

She closed her eyes as the words of a horrifying poem crept into her brain like fire through a field. It never went away, not entirely. “The killing is simple. But the pieces outside of it...” She shook her head. “This makes sense, yeah? The Inquisition. Even the demon shit. As a mage, it makes logical sense. We get confusion and fear and feeling lost in an unfamiliar world. The Venatori want their country back to its former glory, the demons can’t handle our world, and the freemen are homesick, tired veterans of pointless civil wars. But it makes sense. A Blight is alien, your enemies are alien, their motivations are alien. It’s not hate, or unfamiliarity, it’s just... an urge to burn, and rape, and destroy. So you don’t feel so bad killing them, not like you might for an old soldier with a family, but you have to live with knowing that kind of force exists out there. Just furious, savage, untempered evil.” She exhaled slowly, eyes still closed. Her pulse raced now, the imagery she spoke of now running her thoughts into self-defeating knots of memory. “And it can be killed, but not without a price; even to kill this evil, we have to give up a part of ourselves.” She looked at him now, over her shoulder. “And what kind of world punishes people for fighting unrelenting, unambiguous evil?”

He stood between her and his bedroll, listening, weighing her words, letting them sink in before he made any judgments. The Wardens were a short-sighted organization, a temporary solution that might ultimately only make matters worse. But in all his experience, he had not faced Darkspawn like she had. There were occasional skirmishes with them on the Storm Coast or the Approach, but what she spoke of was scores of them. And the scars she had, the dreams that tortured her even while her conscious mind was bathed in blackness, those forged the woman he saw before him. Even like this, lying wounded on her side on a bed made of leaves, covered in dirt and blood, he had no doubt that she would survive. She could have survived without his help, he knew --though he had no logical reason for believing it.

She reached around her, grasping hopelessly for something, and he bent down to get her flask from where she left it by the fire. He put it into her groping hand, and she shot him a grateful smile before she drank. As bad a combination as head injuries and alcohol were, he couldn’t exactly blame her for finding some other outlet for her experiences. She put the flask down and he heard her sigh heavily, sinking down into her makeshift bed. “Thank you,” she said, and he smiled despite himself. 

“Sathem ma halani, lethallan.”

Eirwen raised an eyebrow, looking back at him. “Meaning?”

“I am pleased to have been of assistance.”

She smirked and settled back into her bed, making herself comfortable. “I like the first one better.”


	4. Truly Impressive

“You said you were from an elven village, yeah?”

Solas glanced at her, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

“Because we’ve been walking for three hours in complete silence.” There was nothing around them but fields upon fields of tall, yellow-brown grasses. Far off in the distance she could just barely see what looked like sharp grey cliffs against the rolling hills. They’d left the forest behind that morning, and had since trudged along toward what Eirwen suspected was a nonexistent Inquisition camp. She’d only relented in her pursuit of her men because she figured she could at least leave Solas at camp and meet her attackers on her own.

“I thought it was a rather comfortable silence.”

Part of her wanted to get into that shiny bald head, to understand what it was that kept him so occupied as they hiked. She knew he liked spirits, and dreams, and talking about spirits and dreams, but he didn’t seem much interested in talking to her. Finally, after a few minutes more of decidedly uncomfortable silence, she stopped. He walked a few steps further before looking at her. “You’ve gotten us lost, haven’t you?”

He blinked, feigning insult. “Of course not. I know exactly where we are headed.”

“Yeah, you know where we’re headed, but not how to get there.” She groaned and closed her eyes. The bandage around her head was making her sweat, and the one on her side made breathing difficult. Though she was definitely recovering, the process was slow and she was impatient. “You haven’t any idea where the camp is, do you?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, awkwardly: “Ah... it appears I do not.”

She swore and collapsed to the ground, her legs crossed beneath her, her fingers pressed into her aching temples. “Andraste’s tits, I’m going to die out here.”

“There’s no need to be dramatic. I am certain we’ll find something.”

“Are we even still in the Dirth?”

“Ah...” He looked around, turning in a small circle. “Perhaps.”

She let a slow exhale out from her nose, her eyes closing for a moment as she convinced herself not to be upset. It didn’t work, so instead she took out her flask and sucked down a copious amount before hissing and tucking it away.

She stood, making him raise an eyebrow, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Come on dreamer, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“How do you still have alcohol left?”

“Listen, I’m gonna turn into a dragon, and you’re gonna get on my back.”

He blinked, genuinely surprised. “You can turn into a dragon?”

She nodded and smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. “A small one, but yes. I’m working on making it bigger.”

“That is... truly impressive.” He gestured forward. “I’d like to see it.” 

She stepped forward, stumbling a bit, and shooed him back to give her some space. With a dramatic, drunken flair, she widened her stance and cracked her fingers out in front of her. This had been easier when she had her staff, but it wasn’t impossible without it. What would prove difficult, and what she hadn’t mentioned to him, was recovering from such a draining spell. This form was so heavy on her that it took her at least a day to recover, and that was assuming she could spend most of that time sleeping. But if it worked, if she could actually manage to bring them to camp, then she could rest as much as she liked afterward and hopefully heal from her injuries as well. Then she could find her men.

The Veil twisted, contorting so much from her magic that it actually made Solas’s stomach lurch. He had not ridden a dragon since he was very young, a boy with far too much time and far too little sense of self-preservation. But he’d seen the spell performed many times in his life, usually as a method of intimidating enemies or followers. It had always been a symbol of divinity, performed in grand temples and supported by prayers and advanced spellwork. To see it like this, cast by a drunken mage in a field with no staff and several major injuries for no reason but to travel faster --it was sacrilegious in a way that made him grin.

Still, seeing it begin, how it strained the already-thin Veil where they stood, made him anxious. He knew she was talented, but only a truly exceptional mage could manage such a spell without seriously exhausting themselves. And if she had to fight at any point in that form, the situation could become dire later on.

She clenched her fists, the preparation invisible to all but the magically-inclined. But as the spell began in earnest, as tendrils of blue lightning magic wound around her shape, it became impossible to look away. Solas stepped back, static dancing on his skin, her magic reaching out to him for more. It wasn’t a conscious effort, but a remnant of when the spell was first designed, when it would draw upon the “faith” of practitioners and bind their own magic to the caster’s.

A great sphere of her native thunder magic formed around her, growing well past her immediate vicinity and expanding until Solas had to step back even farther. It shuddered, the air whining in protest, and he braced himself as the spell reached its final size. She was right that her form was smaller, but any size dragon was impressive.

Suddenly the spell snapped back, loosing a wind of magic that made the air on his arms stand on end. He dug his staff into the ground and held on, feeling her magic whip through his clothes and make waves through the tall grass that pulsed past his line of sight. Thunder roared a second later, and lightning split violently all around him.

He coughed, blinking hard, looking through narrowed eyes as the last of the lightning spread out from a great shape standing before him. She had borrowed the form of a Vinsomer, a powerful lightning dragon, but she was no more than a third the size of a full-grown animal. Its wings were likely too small to create real lift, but they would serve as formidable weapons in a fight.

She turned to him, a low, rumbling growl building in her throat. He was briefly reminded that a dragon’s form could prove difficult to control, that just standing here before her could put him in danger.

But she relaxed, dipping her wings toward the ground, and flattened grass beneath her great feet as she shifted so he could climb on to her back. No doubt they would look extremely conspicuous if anyone saw them, but only a truly foolish person would attack a mage sitting on the back of a dragon.

He grunted as he climbed on to her back, gripping ridges of scales to get his bearings. Her dragon form’s back was too wide to sit on like he would a horse, so he sat with one leg bent before him and the other off her sloped side. She growled again, the sound rumbling through her body and into his, and he released a shaky breath. Her first step sent him lurching forward and he gasped, grasping at her scales before he fell off and risked getting crushed beneath her feet. He wasn’t even sure if she could feel him like this.

Eventually she reached a decent pace that seemed comfortable for her. He struggled to hold on, and after a few near-falls he used a strip of magic wrapped around her wings to keep himself on her. She barely noticed, only giving a quiet grumble in response. Her rough scales rubbed against the inside of his thighs, and she gave off a scent he could only describe as “the desert.” The air around them felt charged, as if a storm would begin any moment, and wherever they walked, animals went silent.

Rolling hills and tall grasses gave way to deep, marshy fens, and she slowed at the sight of a great elvhen statue angled out of the ground. A massive hart stood above even her great form, staring proudly toward the sky, its antlers curved like fire from its head. Curious, Solas took the opportunity to slide off her back and stretch his legs.

He pressed his palm to the statue’s base, frowning as he tried to make out the worn writing carved into its cold stone. She snorted like a horse behind him, and he turned to her. “Can you understand me?” Until that moment, he’d never seen a dragon roll its eyes before. She nodded nonetheless. “We must be nearing Ghilan’nain’s Grove, if we have not entered it already. I wonder if...” He trailed off, looking up and off to the right, eyes following the stone walls high above them. The ground shook and he felt her electric presence beside him. The gesture made him smile --even as a dragon, she was curious.

“Much of this was a temple once. Perhaps... a satellite for Ghlian’nain worshipers. It has been abandoned for so long that the Earth has grown around it. The trees, the water... it all came after the temple.” He swallowed hard, feeling heaviness gathering in his chest. Time destroyed this place. Time rendered it unrecognizable. But even here, where his people once made a home, the Veil hung heavy on his shoulders. “I am... unfamiliar with how Circle mages view Elvhenan. Perhaps you think of it as a great empire of stone, like Orlais. Or perhaps the Dalish stories of elvhen living in trees and being one with the forest are more widespread than I realize.” She was silent save for her heavy breathing, but when he looked at her, she was listening intently. “The stone here is all that remains of great crystal spires and permanent, twisting threads of magic. It was beautiful.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment before looking at her again. “But it would all feel very alien today.”

They needed to start moving again. He began retreating to her side, his mind elsewhere, when a loud roar bellowed through the canon, shaking the ground and sending rocks tumbling to the ground. A great shadow covered him --one of his companion’s wings, shielding him from the damage. She raised it as one of the last echoes shuddered through them.

Another growl --this time from Eirwen herself-- shook in his chest. She moved, her tail forming a crescent around him, her wings once more blocking out the sun. A chill jolted up his spine as another roar, like thunder across the fens, made the canyons chaos around them. This was closer, and somehow targeted. He looked at her, but her eyes were on the sky. Another roar began before the last finished echoing, and he felt it in his bones.

Eirwen growled at him and stepped aside, urging him on to her back. He climbed on as quickly as he could, and she started moving as he righted himself. Shadows fell on them, the ruined temple becoming labyrinthine as they searched for a way out. Suddenly Eirwen paused, and Solas, following some sort of hunted instinct, turned his gaze to the sky.

Another roar, this one so powerful that Eirwen actually stumbled in the mud, rocketed through the ruins as he saw the High Dragon circling above them, watching, waiting for them to enter an open area that it could land in. He felt wind rush through him when it flapped its great wings, and squinted against the sun as he tried to see its face.

“We have to go, now,” he yelled to her, and she nodded before starting back the way they came in. But then a burst of lightning struck the ground just before them, and he swore as she stopped short and nearly threw him off her back. 

As if acting on her own instinct, Eirwen roared back at the other dragon. The sound was so loud it was as if his brain was being assaulted, and he bowed his head close to her out of fear she’d throw him off. It proved a clever idea --she took off suddenly, running back through the corridors, his arms straining as he clung to her back and tried not to fall off. When she paused to see where their pursuer was, Solas took the opportunity to cast another magic string, binding his hands and feet to her back.

The High Dragon landed on a cliff in front of them, destroying even more of the temple as it struggled to get a foothold. It still couldn’t land on their level due to the narrowness of the corridor, but it was so close now that another bolt of lightning could easily kill them both.

Or, he realized with a jolt of fear, it would only kill him. As another thunder dragon, Eirwen would almost certainly survive a stray lightning bolt. He would take the full brunt of the dragon’s attack, and if he wasn’t killed instantly would wish he were.

They were running out of places to hide. The High Dragon glared down at them, as if daring Eirwen to challenge its dominance over the grove. It was unsteady on its feet, but terrifying nonetheless.

Eirwen ran forward, underneath an arch that led into another narrow corridor. A monstrous bolt of lightning landed just in front of them and she reared back, roaring, changing direction to avoid the attack. She turned down another path, running faster now, moving through a section of the labyrinth Solas knew they hadn’t seen before. “Wait--” he yelled, but he could barely hear himself. He held on tightly, gritting his teeth so they wouldn’t snap together as she nearly threw him with every step.

She came to a halt, and when he looked up, his heart dropped.

They’d entered a broad, open marsh, with burnt trees all around them. Eirwen walked slowly, her steps sinking deep into the swamp. Though they could no longer see the High Dragon, he could feel its presence near them. He panted, closed his eyes, and leaned into her back.

They had a moment to breathe before the corridor behind them collapsed. He sat up, staring forward, adrenaline pumping into his heart as he watched the High Dragon land before them with a quake so powerful it cleared the grove of birds and felled every burnt tree he could see.

Solas freed one of his hands and took out his staff, which had stayed tied to his back during their journey. He sat forward, clutching his staff, bracing himself for a fight.


	5. Firing Back

Solas closed his eyes. The air tasted like salt and detritus, but dry as the plains. It whistled through the ancient walls of the destroyed temple all around him, carrying nothing but the steady, bestial breathing of the massive animals within. The hard, uneven scales of his mount rubbed at his inner thighs, and if he let himself focus on his worn skin he would know that it ached. Instead he clenched his fist around the cold, ancient wood of his staff. Ice magic crackled inside it, barely bound to a more temperate coolness by enchanted drake leather around its grip. 

He distantly appreciated the irony of its wrappings as he reopened his eyes and turned his gaze to the massive beast before him. The hand that did not hold his staff squeezed the magical reign tied around his fingers. Without it, he would have fallen off the magnificent creature beneath him much earlier.

She growled, the sound low and deep and feral. Somehow, she was both herself and not at all --asked to identify her as an Elvhen woman, anyone would fail. But as electricity crackled around them, as he felt her muscles tense and watched her head lower toward the ground, he knew, confidently, that Eirwen Surana was still fully herself inside the dragon’s shape.

A massive roar shook the fens, so loud it scattered Solas’s thoughts and even set Eirwen off-balance. She shook her head and returned the sound, evidently unconcerned with how it would ring over and over in Solas’s head. He grit his teeth and cast a barrier over them both, eyeing the much larger dragon across from them warily. 

The High Dragon pulled its head back, and with a movement so fast it was over before Solas realized it had begun, Eirwen dashed away from a thunderous blast of lightning. It burned the swamp, raising over the ruins the stench of torched rot. In a flash the High Dragon changed direction, loosing another burst toward them that Eirwen again narrowly dodged. 

In that instant, Solas had a clear shot. He hurled a frozen spell at the dragon, smacking it in the neck and earning them both another painful roar. He ducked his head into Eirwen’s hide, grimacing as his bones shook with the force of the sound. 

The High Dragon lunged for them and Eirwen fell back, snarling as she did. Why wasn’t she firing back? Of course, she was saving her energy. This was the only form that could conceivably fight a High Dragon without more allies, so using too much of her power at once would be foolish. Solas leaned back and drew a wall of ice between them, allowing Eirwen to bring them out of the High Dragon’s range. 

He struck at it, watching his companion closely as she bucked and turned, peeling away from the High Dragon’s magic. Sweat stung his eyes and he swallowed hard, a grave fear settling in his chest. They could not win this, not like this. Their only option was to escape, but how? He looked up at the walls around them, apparently chosen by their foe for exactly this purpose. He could not forget the intelligence of their enemy, that ancient instinct that drove a High Dragon to survive despite its size and ferocious nature. A man of such presence would die the moment he offended the wrong noble, but a dragon could live forever on her wits and power. 

“We must get out of this,” he cried, managing to speak between blasts of magic. “It will kill us otherwise!” On his last word he swallowed air, inhaling sharply as the ring of sparks surrounding a blast of thunder flew inches over his head. He panted, eyes wide, magic swirling around his staff as he leaned in close to Eirwen’s hide. He could feel her heavy breathing, his own muscles straining to keep in rhythm with her as she panted beneath his legs. 

Something small, almost invisible, soared through the air and disappeared into the High Dragon’s shape. It did not notice, but something about the projectile made Solas’s stomach drop. Time seemed to slow, everything move at a dragging, glacial rate as a single black arrow slipped through the sky and sunk deep into Eirwen’s scales.

She roared, more in shock than pain, and whirled to face the source of the strike. Solas’s eyes widened: archers, at least thirty of them, stood on the ridge of the ruins, already preparing a volley. Suddenly Eirwen’s wings flared up, shielding him as the arrows fell like rain into the battlefield. Every impact sounded deceptively soft, but Eirwen’s cries of pain betrayed their true power. 

The High Dragon leaped back, shaking the ground and making the archers stumble. It growled, then stirred the air into a gust as it took to the sky. Solas watched it with a dry but genuine appreciation; even a dragon knew when its life was worth more than its pride. It also very well might have done the math and figured that it was better to let Eirwen and the new attackers kill each other than to fight them all at once.

Solas ducked down and cast a barrier over them both, but it had minimal effect against the repeated, violent hails of arrows. Eirwen tried to escape, but he could hear the pain she was in and how her breathing turned ragged, how it took considerable effort just to move her massive form.

She growled low and collapsed, her legs buckling under her as she sank to the mud. An arrow tore through one of her wings and stuck into the scales just inches from Solas’s head. As the archers reloaded Solas risked a glance up at them, trying to guess their allegiance by their silhouettes against the dying sunlight. They bore the shape of human men and women in light but bulky armor, and their helmets flashed when they moved. 

He recast his barrier and hid, waiting out another rain. The Veil, so light here on his skin, contorted in a sickening, painful twist. A blast of magic exploded from Eirwen, covering them both in light so strong that his eyes burned. Then a shockwave of lightning magic pulsed through the fens, and his reins snapped like weak fishing line attempting to reel in a monster. 

Her suddenly aborted spell threw him off her back and he landed heavily, painfully, in the mud. His vision faded in and out, his body rejecting every movement he attempted. Between long, heavy blinks he saw Eirwen laying on her side a few feet away. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing, but somehow he knew it would take more than this to kill her. 

Water splashed on his face and he heard what sounded like incredulous Orlesian spoken over him. He understood some of it, but only after he had time to process what he heard. His thoughts were so scattered, his mind frazzled from the impact, but perhaps... something about them, obviously, about what to do with them. “Détenu”... “duc”... “Revasan”...

It was good he hadn’t struck back at them; these were Gaspard’s men, very tentative allies of the Inquisition. He grimaced and tried to move, earning a loud exclamation of shock from the soldiers. But there was a stronger voice among them, a woman, and as his blurry gaze settled on her he saw the vague outline of Templar armor. 

It was amazing to him how readily this journey went from bad to worse.


	6. Hon hon

This wasn’t right. Usually when Eirwen awoke in an unfamiliar place, the hangover that hit her seconds later would tell her what happened. She felt dehydrated and worn, but as a true hangover connoisseur she knew when she wasn’t experiencing one. 

She shifted, her body sore as she moved for the first time in hours. Across the room she heard the floor creak, and the sudden noise wrested her from her drowsiness so fast she felt her hip crack as she turned. Flickering candlelight met her eyes, dancing against the pale face of a middle-aged woman with a crooked smile. “Ah. So you are awake.”

The woman had an Orlesian accent, but not one so thick Eirwen had trouble understanding. Forcing herself to ignore the bitter taste of sleep in her mouth, Eirwen cleared her throat and spoke. “Where am I?”

Again the floor creaked, and with a sigh the woman stood and strode into the light. She was tall and square-faced, her short hair emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheeks and jaw. “Fort Revasan. You are in no danger, Warden.”

Eirwen’s gaze fell to the bright, blood-red symbol on the woman’s chest, peeking out from beneath her cloak. “Why does Gaspard need Templars?”

“There are apostates everywhere. One never knows when a specific skill set may be required.”

“He must have several,” Eirwen said, thinking out loud. “I am no apostate.”

“I did not mean to suggest that you were.” The Templar shrugged. “But after seeing what you are capable of, is it so strange that we would have you guarded?”

Eirwen said nothing, having heard this line of thinking more than enough times to know where it led. “How did you know I was a Warden?”

The crooked smile on the Templar’s face tilted even more, a true smirk now. “A question of mathematics. A Rivaini elf with shapeshifting abilities of the expected age and dimensions? You are not so hard to figure out.”

“For the educated, I suppose.”

“There is a painting of you in Kinloch Hold. Do you know this?”

Eirwen snorted and shook her head. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me.” She sat up and grimaced at her sore muscles. “When did you go to Kinloch?”

“I have been many places.” The Templar held out her gauntlet-bound hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Eirwen reached out and shook it. “Knight-Captain Lezare.”

“Eirwen.” She sat up, frowning. “You didn’t capture me alone.”

“We did not capture you at all, Warden.” Lazare gestured to the door. “You may leave if you wish.”

“That explains your presence...” She wasn’t stupid. They wouldn’t put a Templar so close if they actually meant her to leave on her whim.

“As I said.” Lezare smiled slightly again. “There is no harm in being careful.”

“You found me with someone else. Where is he?”

“We could not catch him. He left you as bait to protect himself.”

Eirwen rolled her eyes. “Unlikely.” She drew her legs toward her, sitting cross-legged now on her bed. “I want to see him.”

“I will not stop you from leaving, Warden. But... perhaps you would meet with our leader, before you go?”

“Gaspard? Oh, yes, as an elven mage that sounds fantastic.”

“You degrade yourself.” Lezare’s voice took on a note of offense, and Eirwen watched her quietly. “You are much more than a mere elf or mage. Duke Gaspard recognizes your accomplishments. He believes a conversation would be... fruitful.”

“I’m not interested.” Eirwen had nothing to gain from such a meeting. She had no interest in following politics, much less being part of them; she’d had plenty of that during the Blight. Her purpose here needed to be leaving, preferably as soon as possible. The longer she spent wallowing in her own exhaustion and having worthless conversations, the worse off her men would be. 

Her fingers toyed with the blanket and she tried not to think of them, locked up somewhere, suffering at the hands of the Freemen because no one knew where they were. Perhaps Adaar had learned of the mishap, perhaps not. 

She looked up at Lezare again, her brows furrowed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“I would say... twenty-six hours or so, by my count?”

Eirwen’s eyes widened. “Liar.”

Lezare shrugged noncommittally. “It may not be exact, but about as much. After your spell, you slept heavy. We could not rouse you, even as we fixed your wounds.”

That’s right. Eirwen touched her side and felt thin, clean bandages under her fingers. There was nothing wrapped around her head either, and the only pain she felt was from dehydration. “A mage did this.”

“That would be absurd.” But the glint in Lezare’s eyes told Eirwen she was right. Clearly Gaspard had no problem keeping both rogue Templars and runaway mages in his employ. 

She shook her head and looked away, frustrated with herself and afraid of what the consequences for this were. Solas, her men, they were all in danger because she couldn’t handle the recovery of her own spell. If Solas was still alive, if they were ever stuck together again, she’d make him promise to keep her from turning into a dragon while intoxicated. 

There was, however, a way out. She looked at Lezare again and nodded to the pile of clothing in the corner that looked like her things. “Give me my clothes and my flask. I’ll speak with the Duke.”

...

“And my girl she wore such lovely things, such lovely pearls and flowers. She’d have you in her palm all night, so long as you pay for the hour, ooh!”

Solas cringed and pressed his fingers harder into his ears, trying desperately to block out the ear-splitting sound of his cellmate’s singing. The dwarf danced about and yelled every line, much to the chagrin of everyone else in the fort’s prison. Every once in a while something heavy would smack into the cell bars, causing the dwarf to yelp and sing louder over the men cursing him to shut up. 

So far Solas had gathered the dwarf, and many of the other prisoners, were part of a lyrium-smuggling ring that Gaspard’s troops broke as they tried to find a way to the fighting in the west. They were selling to anyone that would buy, but the Venatori were naturally their biggest customers. Yet despite their ambiguous morality, the smugglers’ coin still held sway and they’d managed to get the guard to largely leave them alone --and to make their most irritating comrade bunk with the “weird egg-headed knife-ear.”

The dwarf’s name was Sam, allegedly, but that seemed very fake. One of the other smugglers had called him “Belherav,” which seemed a bit far from Sam to Solas’s admittedly un-Dwarven ears. 

When Sam wasn’t singing, he was coming up with remarkably stupid escape plans. One particular highlight involved training a rat to summon his rat friends, attack the guard, and bring him the key. He also seemed convinced that Solas could turn him into a frog and was holding out on him. 

“I know what you magic-y people can do --you can do anything! See, if you just turn me into a frog then I can hop right out, open the door, and we could both go free!”

“I was not aware frogs had the dexterity necessary for lock-picking. Or even using a key.”

“Well you’d turn me back once I got of the cell, obviously.”

“...would I?”

And so on. For hours Sam sang or talked or farted and worked every other smuggler into a frothing rage. At first Solas had assumed Eirwen’s absence was due to her being a woman, that she was being held elsewhere, but he’d heard plenty of female smugglers screaming at Sam since he arrived. She must have been put somewhere else because of her celebrity, an irony which did not go unnoticed. 

Solas tried to ignore his cellmate as best he could, but the incessant noise wore his patience thin. Eirwen had probably slept through all of his suffering somewhere much more comfortable, though he knew it wasn’t her choice. Had it been up to her, he knew she’d have wanted them both in relative comfort.

He considered escaping by using his magic, but one of the Templars Gaspard employed wandered through the cells at inopportune times. The mere existence of Templars upset Solas’s stomach, but that they were here, in the Dirth, was case for even greater concern. He knew of no fighting between mages and Templars here, but the Dalish came through frequently and many of them were fairly relaxed about their mages. That some of them disposed of excess mages was even worse: there were apostate elves wandering the fens and prairies, easy pickings for cruel Templars. 

A loud, sudden crash tore Solas from his thoughts and he looked up to see the guard leaning against the iron bars of his cell. Sam stood directly opposite the guard, holding all four feet of himself tall and proud. The guard spoke in rapid, angry Orlesian to the dwarf, but Sam obviously had no idea what he was saying. 

“Er, hon hon I am, how you say, so Orleeeziian, I cannot speak that, erm, detestable common tongue, as you call it,” Sam said, affecting a very bad Orlesian accent. The guard slammed his fist into the bars, making Sam jump. 

“Shut up! I will beat you!”

“I’d like to see you try! I’m two-thirds your height and still have about a hundred pounds on you!” That was blatantly untrue, but Sam was a rather rotund man. He leaned into the bars, getting uncomfortably close to the guard. “But if you’d like a singing contest, I’d be happy to oblige.”

The guard jabbed his finger through the bars, poking Sam hard enough in the eye that the dwarf reeled backward. “That is what you get, dwarf--” 

Sam cut him off. He reached through the bars, grasped the guard by the collar, and brought him hard into the cold, solid iron again and again. The guard screamed and tried to fight back, but Sam’s grip was too strong as he pounded the guard’s face into a bloody pulp. 

With the ease of a man who had just finished an excellent musical performance, Sam bent down and fished the guard’s keys from his belt loop. He unlocked the cell door and it swung open with a loud creak.

Solas watched him, astonished and silent. Sam met his gaze, paused for a moment, then shrugged. “He didn’t need that. His face, that is. Wasn’t doing anything important with it.”

“I...”

“Well, come on then.” Sam gestured to the door. “You want out of here, then help me. Could use a mage to back me up.” He blinked a few times and rubbed at his eye. “Fuckin’ cheese-eating bastard.”

Solas stood and frowned as he followed Sam into the hallway. The other smugglers yelled and cursed and threw what little they had. “You aren’t going to release them?”

Sam shook his head and raised his voice above the din. “Nah, fuck these guys. Never liked my singing!”

They found the closet where Solas’s staff and Sam’s giant metal fist was stored. Solas eyed it wearily for a moment, then looked at Sam’s face. He had a scraggy, greasy beard with unkempt black wires for hair and pale skin poking out beneath. In the right light, Solas thought he could see dark freckles along Sam’s cheeks and nose. “How did you discover that I am a mage? I never mentioned it.”

Sam fixed his weapon to his arm and shrugged. “You aren’t Dalish, and city elves aren’t that pompous unless they have magic, a giant cock, or both.” Solas raised his brows, and Sam just winked. “Anyway.” The dwarf grinned as he finished strapping his gauntlet on. He let out a slow, relieved breath. “Good to get my hand back. Now let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m itching for a good fight.”


	7. Of Your Dreams

Everything was easier for him in the Fade.

Being surrounded by magic, by spirits and shifting landscapes and an entire world controlled by will, was all much more familiar to Solas than the ironclad reality of the waking world. He’d spent his last few visits scouring the endless twisting plains for some sign of his friend, for a shred of hope that Wisdom was not lost. 

Now he returned with a more concrete purpose. It was unlikely, but if Eirwen were sleeping, he could find her and explain where he was and what happened to him. Finding other mages over significant distances was not easy, especially if he did not have a strong bond with them, but finding Adaar had not taken much effort and Eirwen was at least as magically gifted. The raw power of another mage would draw him to them like a beacon draws ships in the sea. 

When he fought at her side, he’d gained something of a sense for her magic’s signature. It was bright, as that of most powerful mages was, but tinged with fuzzy sparks owing to her innate storm abilities. Her experience in healing and shapeshifting made her magic more amorphous as well, its shape and structure ill-defined. The unusual combination of her training in creation, healing, shapeshifting, and combat magic was distinct, uncommon to him despite his countless years of experience. 

He did not find her, despite the hours he spent searching. Were he not so desperate for the distraction, for the act of hunting itself, he might have given up after only a few minutes. He thought that if he waited long enough she might go to sleep so he could find her, but her signal never appeared.

Even after the fruitlessness of his search became apparent, he continued sleeping and came up with excuses to stay in the Fade. A small part of him wished to look for Wisdom again, but he knew that quest would only result in disappointment. 

He did not have long to wander. A harsh hand shook him, the world of his dreams falling apart as the waking world re-materialized around him. He awoke with a start, magic jolting to his fingertips. His vision focused on the figure beside him, a dwarf with a greasy beard and small, beady eyes. 

“What? What is it?” He sputtered, sitting up as Sam leaned away.

The dwarf shrugged nonchalantly. “I got food. You said you’d cook.”

Solas took a moment to catch his breath, then nodded and set to work. They’d stolen a number of cooking implements from the prison during their escape, and Solas used them now as he started a fire and heated a pan. 

“I was scared you weren’t goin’ to wake up!” Sam sat on the other side of their small camp, picking between his toes. “You’ve been out for most of the afternoon.”

“Abelas. I was... searching for someone.”

Sam grinned. “What kind of someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re looking for someone in your dreams, right? So that would make them the man or woman of your dreams. That kind of someone.”

Solas sighed and poked at the fire. Whatever food Sam had found went into the pan with a small chunk of butter. “That is... not quite how it works. I can find other mages in the Fade if they are powerful enough, like looking for a camp at night by the amount of light it lets off.”

Sam nodded, looking down at his toes. Solas deliberately turned away as the dwarf picked something particularly grimy from beneath a toenail and suppressed a gag. “Did you find ‘em?”

“Unfortunately, no. She is likely awake, in which case I cannot locate her. She would need to be in the Fade consciously for me to find her.”

Sam considered this for a moment, pausing in his picking to frown at the fire Solas’s spell made. “What’s it like? Having magic?”

“Describing magic to one without it would be like describing sight to a blind man.”

“’Like touching, but better’?”

“I... suppose. In that case, it would more resemble a general use of all your senses, but better. You have access to an entirely separate set of skills through a force you can physically feel. I imagine a dwarf’s stone sense is along similar lines.”

“Don’t got that either.”

“You did not come from Orzammar, then?”

Sam looked up from his toepicking with a frown, his brows furrowed as if he were thinking very deeply about the subject. “I don’t think so.” 

“You aren’t certain?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I was born on the surface, but I don’t remember so I don’t know. My mom told me I was, but she might be lying.” He considered the middle toe on his right foot. “Just cause I’ve been told something is true, doesn’t mean it is.”

“Wise words,” Solas replied, impressed. Sam burped appreciatively. 

“You and me could be a good team, you know,” Sam said as he finally put his feet back into his shoes. “An elven mage and a dwarf that isn’t drunk all the time? We’d be unstoppable.”

Solas decided to ignore his idea, at least until he brought it up again. “You mean you are not drunk all the time?”

Sam shook his head and frowned heavily. “Nah. Hate the stuff. Alcohol, that is. Makes me real sick. Bread too. Wine is okay, though.”

“Are you allergic to wheat?”

“Why’s that matter?”

“A lot of alcohol is made from wheat. As is, obviously, bread.”

“I... huh...” Sam crossed his legs and stared into the fire, still frowning deeply. A long silence followed, during which Solas focused on finishing their meal. Finally Sam jolted upright, grinning, and spoke so loudly it made Solas jump. “See?! This is why we make such a good team. Your smarts, my skills and talent and fighting ability and good looks? We’d be unstoppable.”

Solas chuckled and gestured to their meal. “It is finished.”

“Thank the Maker,” Sam gushed. He poked at the meat and took it into his lap. “But listen, really. We could be bounty hunters or something. It’d be so good.”

“I am with the Inquisition. As... tempting as that is, my time is heavily occupied with my duties.”

Sam waved his hand as he tore off a piece of meat. The smell of the food tempted Solas to eat, but he couldn’t bring him to. “Just drop it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Who cares? There’s better horizons. More interesting shit.”

That made Solas smile, though he was getting tired of Sam’s insistence. “I assure you, my time with the Inquisition is plenty interesting.”

“Is it lucrative?”

Solas snorted. “I am living in a castle and the food is excellent. Gold is hardly a concern.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his beard touching the middle of his chest. “No way. A castle?” Solas nodded. “Shit, can I join? I want to live in a castle.”

“I imagine you would be allowed. We could venture to the nearest Inquisition camp, as I have been attempting for several days now...”

“Days? Where are they?”

“I am not sure. I suspect something has pulled our troops from the region. It concerns me, but there is nothing I can do for the time being. I need to find my companion, and the camp. Barring either of those options, I will return to Skyhold.”

“Skyhold...” Sam smiled, softer now, and looked up through the trees. “It even sounds fancy.”

“It is.” A similar fond smile pulled at Solas’s lips, and he finally took some food from the pan. “It is an ancient elvhen fortress in the Frostbacks. For hundreds of year it stood empty, but now it sings with life.”

“Do people actually sing?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll fit right in, then.” Sam smiled, showing bits of food between his teeth as he tore off another bite. “Let’s find a camp, then. I want to see this fortress for myself.”

Solas nodded as he chewed and swallowed. “First I need to find Eirwen and ensure her safety. If I cannot meet her in the Fade, we will go on to a camp and attempt to send an emissary back to Fort Revasan.”

“Do you think your friend is okay?”

Though he hesitated a moment, Solas knew instinctively that she would be fine. “She is extremely clever, and a very talented mage. Few things would seriously threaten her, and I imagine none of them are at Fort Revasan.”

An uncomfortable grin took over Sam’s kind smile, and Solas grimaced at the seedy expression. “She must be pretty great.”

“She’s the Hero of Ferelden. She will be fine.”

\---

Eirwen’s initial plan regarding Gaspard was not to have a plan at all. She didn’t think she needed one, as she had nothing to lose or gain by talking to him.

Nothing to gain or lose personally, anyway. She could use this meeting for her troops, if not for the Inquisition as a whole. 

Still she did nothing to improve her appearance beyond fixing her hair and putting cleaner clothes on. For days now she’d been living in the plains, bleeding and starving and relying on her magic for survival. She’d spent the last day sleeping in a prison under the supervision of a Templar. If she needed to dress up to meet someone, they would need to find her at Skyhold. 

Eirwen knew a little about Orlesian nobility from her travels. She expected duplicity, a literal mask, and a heavy dose of racism. She had no interest in “The Game” but knew how little her preference mattered. Regardless of whether she actually tried to play, any Orlesian noble would verbally destroy her. 

She figured someone would get her and take her to meet him on his terms, perhaps in his tent or office. Instead, the inevitable knock at her door brought her face-to-face with the Duke.

“I thought Orlesians wore masks.”

Gaspard was a formidable man, easily a head taller than Eirwen and broad even in his riding gear. He was significantly older than she’d expected, but she wasn’t sure why she thought he was younger. He bore heavy lines on his face, accentuated by the shadow of dark hair on his oval-shaped head. 

He smiled and she kept looking him over, not reacting. “There is no need for formalities. We are two former soldiers having a conversation.” He bowed slightly, and she returned the gesture with a spark of hesitation. “May I?” He gestured toward the table in her room, but he must have noticed her wariness because he did not enter; instead, he gestured behind him and Lezare stepped out from his shadow. She nodded to Eirwen. “I understand you are Ferelden, in culture at least.” There was an unmistakable note of superiority in his voice that nearly made Eirwen roll her eyes. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable with a neutral party?”

“No,” Eirwen said flatly, quickly, glancing at the Templar. Should something unexpected happen, Gaspard could not prevent her from escaping like Lezare could. “We’ll be fine.” She stepped back, showing the Duke inside. “Thank you for the offer, though.” Her eyes briefly met Lezare’s, but she couldn’t read her expression. She left the door open, mostly because her crow form struggled with doorknobs. She knew full-well that Lezare would most likely be on the other side waiting for disaster, but putting distance between her two main concerns would buy her valuable time.

“I’m surprised anyone in Orlais knows about the Blight,” she began, finding her flask by her bed and unashamedly taking a drink. It burned on the way down and she hissed, shaking her head. “I was worried Loghain told you all it was an elaborate myth, created by the Grey Wardens to take over Ferelden, or something.”

“No, he was far more concerned with Orlais spontaneously invading a darkspawn-infested swamp.” Gaspard looked at her flask, one brow raised slightly. “What are you drinking?”

“I’m not even really sure anymore,” she smirked and put the flask back down. “I just dump whatever liquor I can find into it.”

“La Félicité du Fantassin. The Infantryman’s Bliss.”

“Is that what you call it? A random selection of alcohols?”

“It was not uncommon to find half-empty bottles and split them among us. The truly desperate would pour it all into one flask, as I assume you do.”

Eirwen nodded. “It tastes like shit, though.”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “That is irrelevant, no?”

She shrugged noncommittally. Instead of sitting across from him at the table, Eirwen sat down on the edge of her bed. “You said former soldiers.” She nodded to the sword at his hip. “You’re still fighting.”

“I misspoke. We are both still fighting, are we not? I fight for my countrymen, you for... yourself, I suppose. Or perhaps for another drink.”

“If only. I’d rather fight only for myself. It’s easier that way.”

“What is your fight now, Warden? The Archdemon is dead, you do not lead the Inquisition... you are not even fighting for mages, despite being one yourself.” He leveled his gaze, his expression respectful but confused. “I admire your accomplishments, and I have great respect for the Grey Wardens, however... I am not sure what brought you here.”

Eirwen’s eyes narrowed. He knew full-well what brought her there. She’d told Lezare, and Lezare must have briefed him. Why would he ask a question he already knew the answer to? “Do you know where my troops are, Gaspard?”

“I... assure you I have no idea what you are referring to.”

“Deserters from your army, from your war, kidnapped my men and took them somewhere. They left me for dead, and were it not for the kindness of a person your soldiers are keeping in the prison of this fort as we speak, they would have succeeded.” She spoke clearly, with no hint of slurring, and kept her voice even and low despite her accusatory words. 

Gaspard sighed heavily, as if exasperated, and looked away from her. “Those bastards... We should have hunted them down and killed them before they could cause such damage.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back to her. “They call themselves the Freemen of the Dales. It is absurd.”

The bed creaked as Eirwen shifted her weight, crossing her legs before her. “Mm. Why are Orlesian soldiers acting like common bandits? They’re harassing Inquisition troops and refugees passing through the area.” She’d nearly mentioned the Dalish, but caught herself. That clan struggled enough without Gaspard’s men harassing them.

“They are not our soldiers, not anymore. They are cowards. Many men took up arms to fight the Empress, whether they had the heart for it or not.” He tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk returning to his face. “Not everyone is fit for war.”

“So, what? No one takes responsibility? You let your ill-trained men run wild in the Dales, disrupting trade and attacking your allies?”

“No.” He was unexpectedly firm, and the disbelief on Eirwen’s face must have been obvious, because he leaned toward her and went on with sudden and alarming conviction. “I wish to make peace with the Inquisition, if not an alliance. I will work to eradicate the Freemen of the Dales, and you will take a contingent of my soldiers with you to destroy their base in the Exalted Plains and retrieve your men.”

A harsh reply buzzed on her tongue, but she held back. That was a suspiciously good offer. 

“Consider it an act in good faith,” he said before she could question him. He sat back and cleared his throat, looking towards the open door for a moment before turning his hard, dark gaze back to her. “I must admit to some curiosity on my part. Do you still hold the title of Warden-Commander?”

Eirwen swallowed and looked away, effectively giving him his answer. 

“In that case, I am certain you know of the insanity at Adamant Fortress.”

“What?” 

He stood and straightened his shirt. “I suppose they are Orlesian Wardens, in truth. None of your concern, really.”

“What is happening at Adamant?”

“Lezare!” He called suddenly, giving Eirwen a start. The Knight-Captain stepped inside with a quick bow. “Prepare a small group of our best men at Revasan and assist the Warden-Commander in getting her men back from the deserters.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Gaspard.” Eirwen stood, her voice and posture hardened. She no longer cared about Lezare’s presence. “What have you heard?”

The Duke glanced at Lezare, feigning confusion. “My sincerest apologies, Warden-Commander, but that is confidential information. Perhaps we may speak again at a later time, in more discerning company.” There was a flicker of offense in Lezare’s eyes, but the schadenfreude did nothing to soothe Eirwen’s frustration. 

Gaspard bowed to her, and Eirwen’s jaw stiffened. “I need to know, Gaspard,” she insisted, unmoving. “Or at least the Inquisitor does. Send her a missive. You aren’t doing us any favors by withholding information.”

“Again, I apologize. I will consider the missive, but I cannot give you any more information at this time.” He bowed to her, deeper than he did before. “Another time, Warden-Commander. It has been a pleasure.”

She clenched her fist, but let him go. For now, she would take the soldiers and find her men. She would deal with Gaspard, and Adamant, in due time.


	8. Old Parchment

“He was manipulating you.”

“I know.” Eirwen let out a slow, frustrated breath through her nose. She sat on the ground, legs crossed, fingers plucking at the grass before her. The air was heavy and prickling, and the usual animal spirits that came to her dreams were absent. She’d managed to find Solas in the Fade after insisting she rest before heading out with Gaspard’s troops. They’d caught up quickly. Sam sounded like an interesting character, and Solas shared her concerns about the Duke’s offer.

“I expect him to use this as leverage in some way.” Solas paced, his footfalls making soft crunching sounds in the grass. That too was a creation of the Fade. They could remove any trace of impact from their existence, but Eirwen always kept the weight of her footsteps. For her, it was a matter of comfort. Solas could have done without it, but he could tell it made her feel more at home in her dreams. “However, rejecting his help now would cause more problems than accepting it.” 

“So we’ll go forward, then. With Gaspard’s help.”

“We should send a crow to Leliana first. This could cause greater diplomatic issues with the Inquisition.”

Eirwen clenched the grass between her crossed legs and scowled. “I get it, you think I screwed up. What would you have done?” Her accusatory tone leaned on the obvious: Solas clearly believed he would have handled the situation better.

He stopped pacing and looked at her. “Were our positions exchanged, I would have insisted upon your release before making any deals.”

“It’s not as if I ignored you! I asked them to release you.” She turned, meeting his gaze. “I trusted you would find your own way out if I could not secure a path. And you did.”

“That is not the point, Warden.” Solas sighed in frustration and then stopped himself, putting his hands out in front of him as if he could pause the moment in time. “This is unimportant. What matters is where Sam and I will meet you, and where we will go afterward.”

Much as part of her wanted to argue, she knew it wouldn’t get them anywhere. Instead she deliberately relaxed her shoulders and shook her head, clearing her focus. “I’m surprised you aren’t gone already. You should go back to Skyhold, and I can meet you there later. This is not your fight, and you’ve done enough for me.”

“Eirwen...” She looked away from his withering gaze, already tired of having this argument. She knew he was too, but that didn’t make his continued insistence on staying with her any more understandable.

“I literally managed to get you arrested. We should have traveled far enough now that you can find a forward camp, or at least some of our Scouts at the Path of Flame. Thank you for what you’ve done, but it’s really... I’ll be fine.”

“I know that.” His voice was kinder than she expected, but still she looked away from him, toward the mist-shrouded trees. “You do not need the help. You could do this on your own. But I have the time, and I am going to help you anyway.”

“But why?” She was exasperated. 

“Because I want to.” She looked at him now, and saw a devastatingly frustrating smirk on his face. “And I believe it’s worth doing. Therefore...” He stood in front of her now, and offered her his hand. “Where shall we meet?” 

She took his hand and stood, thanking him quietly, and then straightened out her clothes. “Well... here.” The air tightened around them for a moment, and she closed her eyes. She held her hands out in front of her, palms toward the sky. Fragments of old parchment appeared, floating just above her fingers, and slowly grew into a large, detailed map of the Dirth. She looked at him to see his smirk had not faded. 

“Impressive.”

“I’ve had some practice. And... it’s easier when someone else is here.” She cleared her throat and straightened out the map. “I -yes, okay. We’ll have to consider where we’ve seen them, and where a logical location of their base might be.” 

He stood close to her, his smirk fading to a concentrated frown as they marked the map with glimmering strands of magic, tracing the paths of the Freemen as best they could determine. Finally the strands cut across at a single, clearly designated point. “Ah, of course.” Solas nodded, and a circle of his green magic wrapped around one of the civil war forts. “The Ramparts to the east. As well as... this.” He marked another spot, farther to the north, where the paths also seemed to coalesce. “A village.” He paused, considering, and she looked at him. “We should go there first.”

“I would think the ramparts would be a more logical choice.”

“The ramparts are a military encampment. Depending on the size of our force, and I imagine that size will be relatively small, the village should be easier to seize. More importantly...” She looked at the map again, noting the size of the village. “If I am not mistaken, that village is populated. If civilians are still alive there, we can find them. If not, we could inform their families of their fate.”

She considered this, tilting her head from side to side and pursing her lips. Then she nodded and let the map de-materialize until only the name of the village remained. It floated in the air, the last fragment of a wide page of parchment, and drifted down into her waiting palm. “Vilbirn in the north.” She closed her fingers around it and looked at him again. “We’ll meet north of Revasan, by the creek there.”

“How very precise of you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Most likely, I’ll come to you as a crow. As long as you’re by the water, Ill find you. Your friend won’t freak out when I shift back, will he?”

“Possibly, but I wouldn’t concern yourself.” 

She frowned, but nodded anyway. “Alright. Just go to the creek. If anyone harasses you, harass them back until I get there.”

He snorted. “I... will do that.” He looked at her for a moment, then broke eye contact as the moment hung awkwardly between them. “I should go, then.”

“Yes, we’ll... we’ll meet at the creek.”

“Yes. Until then, Eirwen.” He cleared his throat, stepped back, and vanished. 

“Until then,” she said, too late for him to hear. She stood alone in the clearing of her dreams, feeling the weight of his absence around her. She hadn’t told him as much, but until she met him she’d never casually shared her dreams with another mage. Spirits, yes. And she’d spent her time searching for others, drawing them to her, or finding them without their knowledge, but it had never been reciprocal like this. It had never been so easy. 

She let out a shaky exhale as the shape of her dream, the feel of it all around her, re-formed into something she was more accustomed to. But it was lonelier now, in a way it had never been before. Empty.


	9. Taking Flight

She perched on the window’s edge, black eyes wide and round, staring out into the abyss of night below her. A cool, stiff wind blew through her feathers, cutting to the skin beneath her soft dark down. She ruffled her wings, her head tilting at movement in the shadows. A lone halla wandered out of the trees, grazing at the base of Fort Revasan. Its white coat gleamed, visible even to her poorly adapted eyes. She had better nightvision as an elf than she did as a crow, but her true form couldn’t fly. 

The halla bowed its head to the grass, unaware of her surveillance. The fort bustled like a lively village during the day, scaring off the natural denizens of the Plains until well after the night guards began their watch. It was likely strange to such creatures, as until only a few months ago the fort had been largely unused. 

A vibration in the floor made her turn, looking back into the storeroom behind her. She waited, listening, sensing the movement as it drifted away from her hiding place. Not that she was at any particular risk of being caught; it was unlikely anyone would make the connection that their missing ‘guest’ had turned into a bird and flown away.

She looked back to the forest and stretched her wings out, shaking her feathers to prepare for flight. Several small steps brought her closer to the edge, and in a sudden flush of sound she took off into the black, gaping maw of the night.

Her mediocre nightvision as a crow sometimes made her wish she’d chosen a different flying animal to shift into. An owl, perhaps, or a bat. But crows were common and expected; she could venture in and out of otherwise prohibited places because no one cared about the presence of a single crow. 

She flew slowly, catching rare gusts of night air as she circled the fort, looking for the creek Solas and Sam would meet her by. She flew lower, straining her ears against the wind, and let out an echoing caw. As if in response, she heard a loud “shit!” and something fall over into crunching leaves. She turned in a wide arc and circled the apparent source of the sound, peering down through the trees. Weak moonlight gleamed off the surface of a small, quiet stream, and two silhouettes hissed at each other on its banks. She circled down until she was just above the tree tops, then dropped to the soft grass beside the water.

Two figures, one tall and one short, stared down at her from beneath dark hoods. The smaller one brushed dirt off his behind. She recognized Solas’s pale face instantly, but the other was mostly beard. “Is that her?” The mass of scraggly black hair asked.

Eirwen raised her wings for maximum dramatic effect, then carefully let the spell fade. She stood to her full height, black feathers dancing around her, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Probably.”

The bearded man, whom she assumed was Sam, gawked. Solas’s smiling eyes shone in the dark beneath his hood. “Good evening, Eirwen.”

She nodded to Solas, smirking. “Good evening. You found this place alright, I assume.”

“After some bickering, yes.” He eyed Sam, who still stared at Eirwen with an open mouth.

“Careful dwarf, you’ll catch flies.”

Sam snapped his jaw shut, then shook his head and laughed. “Incredible! I wish I could learn how to do that.”

“You could always make yourself a suit out of feathers,” Solas mused.

“And have to handle glue? Bah!” Sam held out his hand to Eirwen, and she shook it with a smile. “I am Sam. And I am honored to meet you.”

“Thank you, truly.” Eirwen hadn’t been sure what to expect from him, but he seemed more reasonable than she’d feared. “I take it you don’t mind helping us seize a village full of Orlesian deserters?”

He nodded toward Solas. “Well, this one promised snacks.” 

“I did no such thing. I said that if we find extra food, then I imagine you can probably have some.”

Sam shrugged. “There’s always looting.”

“Please do not loot the village, Sam.”

“Not the village! Maker, you must think I’m some kind of monster. I’m gonna loot the deserters. They probably have lots of fun knives on them.”

“And good ale,” Eirwen added, to which Sam shrugged. “In any event, we’ll be taking a force of 15 ‘good men’ to Vilbirn come sunrise.” She looked up at the sky. “You still have time to get some rest.”

Solas’s glowing eyes followed her gaze. “At the base of an Orlesian fort? I should think not.” 

“I’m gonna sleep,” Sam added, adjusting the giant metal fist on his arm. “You can keep watch.” Solas frowned at him as the first of several buckles on the fist unlocked. “You slept most of the day anyway.”

“I believe it.” Eirwen smirked and Solas rolled his eyes.

“I was looking for you, not strictly resting.”

“Strictly resting. That could be the name of your autobiography.”

Sam snorted and Solas crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “Was there anything else we needed to discuss?”

“Uh... if we’re supposed to be imprisoned right now, what’s to stop these guys from just locking us up again?” Sam asked.

Eirwen raised an eyebrow at him. “Me, of course. Even if they wanted to hurt either of you, I would not let them.”

Sam grinned, and though Solas controlled his reaction, her promise made him smile. Normally words like hers were empty, but he believed she meant them. He trusted her.

“I will meet the both of you here in the morning, then bring you to the rest of our forces.” She looked at Sam, who nodded, then at Solas. “Does that sound alright?”

“Yes. Be careful, Eirwen. Even with your reputation, these men will be suspicious of any mage. And you’re bringing another.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” She winked, then sighed and stepped back from them. “Sleep well.”

“You too!” Sam replied cheerily before she turned away and returned to her crow form. A startled breath caught in Sam’s throat, and he watched in awe as she once again took to the sky.

\---

Eirwen rode in front, clutching the reigns of her horse between leather-clad fingers. A single dagger bounced against her hip, shifting with every movement of the dappled gray mare beneath her. Lezare rode at her right, sitting atop a great white horse with a Templar symbol emblazoned on the saddle.

Lezare looked to her side, where Solas rode on a broad bay roan. “You ride well, for an elf.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Who taught you?”

“A demon,” he replied bluntly, and Lezare scoffed. 

“I imagine such jokes are very funny when you have not seen the devastation an abomination can cause.”

“What joke? I was being entirely serious. A demon of horse-riding. I’ve also met demons of archery, bread-making, and basket-weaving.”

“There are no basket-weaving demons. That does not make any sense.”

“Neither does not being able to ride a horse because I have pointed ears. Are we not having this discussion in a realm of nonsense?”

“Maker, could you two lighten up?” Eirwen turned to them, visibly annoyed. “I think even the horses are sick of your bickering.” As if in response, her horse farted loudly.

“Ugh, such disgusting beasts.” Though Eirwen managed to secure a mount for him, Sam had elected to walk instead. He held a long baguette in his hand and tore off a piece with his teeth as he went on. “I don’t know how you people can be around them so much. They smell, and they kick, and they shit so much all the time.”

“So do drunken dwarves with big appetites,” Lezare mumbled.

“I am not drunk! I’m allergic to wheat, so I can’t be drunk.”

“That is not how gluten intolerance works.”

“What would you have us ride, Sam?” Eirwen cut in, attempting to keep them on a less controversial subject.

He pondered this for a moment as he chewed, swallowed, and took another piece in his mouth. “Giant snakes.”

“What? They don’t even have legs. How could you sit comfortably on one?”

“My legs are pretty short, Warden. I just need a snake with a big enough diameter. The rest of you would just have to be uncomfortable.” He shrugged. “But otherwise they’d be perfect. They’re pretty quick, they don’t smell, and they can bite anyone who tries to mess with you.”

“What about a dragon?” Solas asked, and Eirwen shot him a look half-way between amusement and warning. 

“I don’t particularly like the idea of dying by getting shit on or burned to death, thank you.”

“How often do you get shit on, Sam?” Eirwen asked.

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Can we please discuss something else? This is vulgar.” Eirwen could practically taste Lezare’s displeasure on the wind. Irritation emanated from her like light from the sun. “I try not to spend my time thinking of shit.”

“I thought you were a Templar?” Solas said, and Eirwen spoke quickly before Lezare could respond. 

“Okay, you two are being separated.” She held up her hand and paused the group, then brought her mare around the front. “It’s like herding children who are also cats.”

“Wait, Warden.” Lezare stiffened suddenly, and Eirwen glanced at her before following her gaze to the horizon. “Do you see that? In the distance?”

She squinted. They were close to their destination, only a few miles away. Set against the blue morning sky was a dark, thick cloud of smoke rising from where Vilbirn ought to be.

“That looks bad,” Sam observed.

“Something is wrong. We should hurry,” Lezare said, though she did not move. Much to her displeasure, Gaspard had told her to take orders from Eirwen. 

“There is little benefit to keeping this pace.” Solas looked at Eirwen. “If they are smart, their scouts already know of our presence.”

“You want us to just... charge them?” Eirwen asked, tearing her gaze from the skyline. “We would be running right into their traps.”

“Not if we know of their traps beforehand.”

“I...” She frowned for a moment, then realization dawned on her and she nodded. “Right. You all stay here, and try not to kill each other.” She directed her last point at Lezare, who said nothing.

Eirwen slipped off her horse, then stepped a few feet away and returned to her crow form. The crowd of soldiers was visibly uneasy at this, unsure how to react to any show of magic, much less one so unusual. She cawed loudly, then flew off toward the village.

The discomfort of the crowd gave Solas a strange sense of pride. They came from a world in which any show of magic was cut down harshly, and yet they could not harm her. Her comfort in her magic, and her ease of using spells, was directly contradictory to what these people were used to seeing. Magic was integral to who she was, and she could not care less whether that made the soldiers uncomfortable. Her confidence, her easy comfort with her magic, made her admirable in his eyes.

She flew toward Vilbirn, more comfortable now that the sun made her vision bright and precise. At night, her crow form vanished into the darkness. During the day, she lost true camouflage but gained the presence of other crows. Her appearance now was normal and expected. When someone spotted her, even close by them, they would hardly bat an eye. 

The stench of smoke reached her even with her poor sense of smell. She circled wide around the village, peering down between the densely-packed buildings. In the center was a great blaze, surrounded by men in sloppy, mismatched armor. She landed atop a house, her dark eyes falling to the blaze. One man stood out among the crowd, his white clothes stark against the ashes around him.

He spoke in Orlesian, but what little Eirwen understood was more than enough to make her stomach drop. The man in white gestured behind him to the blaze, which Eirwen now realized was a pyre. In the middle of it, glimpsed between the twisting flames, was the torched body of a person tied to a tall wooden stake. Most of the stake was blackened now, but still it stood, holding the corpse up like a grim offering to an ancient god. 

The man in white held a staff in one hand, and she could feel cold magic radiating out from it. She shivered, her feathers instinctively fluffing to trap warm air against her small body. The man wore no mask, and the precise cut of his dark goatee was distinct.

Another voice cut in, interrupting the man in white’s speech, and he scowled for a moment before smirking. “Bien! Laissez-les venir. Nous serons prêts.”

Eirwen scanned the crowd, looking for a way to undercut their preparations. At the man in white’s command the deserters dispersed, spreading around the village to set up fortifications and arm themselves. Most of them ran into a building off the main square, and came out with ranged weapons moments later. 

She swooped down and landed at the back of the building, then turned into a mouse to follow the men inside. They did not notice her as they took arrows and bolts from the shelves of their makeshift armory. She scrambled to the top of a shelf and waited, watching. When she saw her opportunity, she took it.

Moments later she flew from the building unnoticed. Her men had not advanced, and milled about in nearly the same place she’d left them. When she landed and shifted back, one of the men nearly pissed himself in shock. “They know we’re coming, and they have more than enough ranged weapons to fend us off.”

“Do they have mages?” Lezare asked.

“At least one, but I didn’t see extra lyrium. And no horses, not that I noticed. They have fortified the village, and they’ll be ready.”

“You can make a barrier?” Lezare said to Solas, who nodded.

“It will not protect us entirely, but it can offer some breathing room.” He paused, looking out at the village. “What is the smoke from?”

“They are more than deserters,” Eirwen said. She frowned and turned away, focusing on her horse as she prepared to ride again. “They are burning men alive, though I couldn’t quite understand why. Something superstitious, I think.”

“Naturally.” Solas’s brows knit together and he frowned deeply. “We should move. The longer we wait, the more damage they will do.”

Sam cleared his throat, and spoke for the first time that day without food in his mouth. “Who were they burning?”

“I... I’m not sure.” Eirwen shuddered and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath before swinging herself on to her horse. “But I fear the worst.”

“We’ll stop them,” Solas said, with surprising certainty. Eirwen looked at him, and his pale gaze met hers. “We will. And we will free your men.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded and turned her horse back toward the village. “Right. Let’s move.”


	10. Scars

In the chaotic bloodlust that always overcame her in her animal forms, Eirwen lost track of her allies. She knew where they were well enough to separate them from her enemies, but once the battle raged and her claws met flesh she could no longer find them. Smoke, toxic and powerful, disrupted the smell of blood as the makeshift armory collapsed into burning rubble across the village square. 

From somewhere nearby, she heard her name invoked like a spell on the wind. At first she fought past it, annoyed that someone would try to pull her from her fury, but as the voice increased in volume she tore her focus from the fight and looked in its direction. 

“Eirwen! The mage is gone.” Lezare stood several meters away, her helmet obscuring her features and her sword gleaming with blood. 

What mage? She snarled, her lips pulling back, and dispatched her last foe with a powerful slash of her great ursine paw. Panting, backing up, she turned her massive had toward Lezare. The Templar straightened, visibly uneasy facing down a blood-covered grizzly bear. 

“The mage. The one who is leading them. He has escaped.”

Eirwen dispelled her magic, letting it fade as she returned to her elvhen form. “They’re lead by a mage?” 

Lezare nodded and stepped toward her. By now most of the fighting had ended, and victory was decisively their own. “It appears there is someone pulling the strings that is outside of the immediate Freemen. I believe your organization is fighting a group called the Venatori, yes? Perhaps it is one of them.”

Eirwen let out a shaky breath and nodded. “It could be, yes. How did he escape?”

“I am not sure. He is unaccounted for. He likely escaped during the battle using magic.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t take him on yourself, considering your training.” She meant it; as a Templar, Lezare should have fought any mage enemies herself. 

Lezare pointed to the blazing sword on her chestplate. “I imagine you are not the only one who had that idea. I was occupied.”

Eirwen stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Did anyone find my men? Or any of the villagers?”

Lezare frowned and nodded toward one of the more intact buildings. “I believe your apostate friend may have them.” 

“I... was he fighting? At any point?”

“No.” Lezare was decisive, her gaze set as she stared at the building. “He was no help.”

“I’ll speak with him.” Eirwen stepped through a puddle of mud and left Lezare in the village square. She adjusted her gloves and wiped dust from her armor. Staying in another form kept most of the mess off her in battle, but still her hair and clothes showed signs of wear.

She put the slightest pressure on the door and it opened, nearly falling off its hinges. The smell inside made her recoil immediately and gag. She stumbled back and caught herself on the doorframe. Scrambling, Eirwen took a long, thick bandanna from one of her pockets and tied it around her face. It smelled like sweat, but at least it didn’t smell like piss and shit and death.

The room inside was dark and decrepit, with open crates lying broken all over and people scattered about. They were all human, and most of them were injured, very young, or very old. An old woman straightened immediately as she walked in and peeled herself away from a crying child. She spoke in Orlesian, and her accent was so thick Eirwen could barely understand her.

“Eirwen.” She turned to see Solas emerging from a rickety staircase, hands full of bandages and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I take it we won?”

She breathed slowly through the bandanna, cringing slightly from the stench. “Yes. Are my men here?”

He said nothing and stepped past her, to the crying child. Eirwen watched, quiet, pensive, as he gently shushed them and took their hand, extending their arm so Eirwen could see the deep, dark red gash against the child’s pale skin. He treated it carefully and wrapped it tightly in the bandages, his gloved hands gentle and careful. His soothing helped the child to relax, and their crying slowed to a whimper. It took her a moment longer to realize he was speaking Orlesian, soft and kind.

Once he finished he let the child go, back into the arms of the old woman. “I didn’t know you could speak Orlesian.” Eirwen’s voice was muffled with the fabric over her face. 

“I doubt I know much more than you.” He smirked slightly, but she could tell he was hardly paying her any mind. His attention was on his patients, on the huddled villagers rendered terrified by the fighting outside. 

She followed him like a ghost, enraptured by how he moved about the room, speaking with some and caring for others. On rare occasions she watched him use his magic, but most of what he did was with bandages and alcohol. His slender fingers tied tourniquets and stroked tears from the faces of crying children. 

He finally called on her to help, and at that she did what she could. “I have already worked on the worst of them, on the people that were hurt before we arrived. Many of them just need reassurances at this point.”

“They can go...” She looked to the door. “The fighting is over, we took care of the occupiers.”

“Good. They need more medical attention, though. Some of them are not able to walk.” He wrung his hands before him. “We should have our scouts come through here.”

She stared at him, still breathing through her bandanna, watching as he took in the room. “I’m surprised they let an apostate treat them.”

“They resisted at first, but many will take whatever help they can get. After a time... they were receptive.” He looked down at his hands. “I apologize for not assisting in the battle.” She started to shake her head, but he went on. “They needed my help, Eirwen. I knew I could do more good with them than I could fighting.”

“No, you --you’re right. Thank you.” 

He finally noticed her bandanna and chuckled softly. “Is the smell so bad?”

“I, well, no.” A hot blush lit her cheeks and she pulled the fabric down. It was bad, very bad, but now that he’d teased her she couldn’t make a big deal out of it. “I’m used to it, anyway.” 

“As am I.” He wiped his gloves on his pants and, strangely, put a hand very gently on her back. She stiffened, looked at him curiously, but said nothing as he led them toward the door. He took his staff, which leaned unassumingly on the doorframe, and held the door open for her. 

Before they could leave, the same old woman from before approached them and spoke in her same thick accent. She thanked him profusely, but he shook his head and insisted there was no need. One of the children stood behind her, and insisted he hug her before he left. Eirwen watched, dumbfounded, as he picked the girl up and held her tightly before carefully setting her back down on the ground. 

As they walked out the door, more of the villagers followed them, emerging from the dark room, holding each other and breathing in the fresh air. Solas took his hand from her and they walked away from the building, from the stench of blood and shit and the scars of battle in the village square.

“Where are my men, Solas?”

He turned to her but looked down and away. “They were killed shortly after their capture.”

She closed her eyes and grit her teeth. All at once she was far away, shut off. She nodded and forced herself to look at him again. “I figured as much.”

“I am deeply sorry--”

“Why?” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s not your fault.”

His jaw tightened and he frowned, shifting his weight. “Nor is it yours. You were ambushed. You could not have known.”

She put up her hand to make him stop. “Don’t. We have to keep moving. We need to report back to Skyhold.” Then she paused, and he waited, visibly disturbed, for her to go on. “Or you do, anyway. Other matters have... attracted my attention.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Warden business.” She clapped him on the shoulder and turned, walking away. “You wouldn’t be interested, and I’m not allowed to tell you anyway.”

“Eirwen, this is ridiculous.” He started after her. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it, Solas. It doesn’t affect you.”

“Eirwen, please.” 

She turned around to face him, her movements and expression carefully controlled. “Thank you for helping me, Solas. You have been very patient, and I owe you a great deal for what you’ve done. I know nothing either of us can do will change what’s come to pass, but I can at least try to keep things from getting worse.” She took a deep breath. “You know better than to worry about me. I’m going to regroup with Lezare and then head to the Warden fortress at Adamant. I will see you back at Skyhold.”

He said her name again, but couldn’t keep her from walking away.


	11. Glittering Silverite

Night in the desert left the air dead and stale, laying over the vast sea of sand and rock that offered nothing to her tired wings.  On the coast, even along a river, she could coast on a warm air current to give herself a break from having to stay in the air. Here she had to work to keep herself from drifting toward the ground.

Not helping her was her choice of flying form. A vulture would have had wings made for soaring, and even butterflies migrated longer distances than crows. At least like this she blended into the dark night sky above her, making her virtually invisible to the lifeless Approach below. 

She beat her wings against the dry air despite her exhaustion. She could barely see anything --she’d see better as an elf-- but the stark, violent outline of Adamant Fortress was just barely visible in the quarter-moon light. She’d never seen it before, but the description captured its sharp silhouette unmistakably. Torches broke up the darkness on its walls, illuminating sentries in glittering silverite. 

As she neared the fortress she drew closer to the ground, aiming for a perch atop an unguarded wall. Her talons met cold, hard stone and she let her wings fall open, resting her sore muscles. 

Voices drew her attention down the battlements, and she shifted into a mouse before the approaching guards could see her. She shivered in the cold and scampered into a crack between broken stone slabs. The Wardens spoke Orlesian, complicating her mission, but she could understand enough to follow along. 

They spoke of their dinner, of the ale at the fortress and what they missed from their homes. They were both human, and one was much older than the other. He had a thick grey beard peaking out from beneath his helmet and spoke in a harsher, more rural accent. 

The older man leaned against the wall, looking out over the abyss of desert before him. “Ce plan de Clarel...” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

The other man, tall and lanky, with scraggles of blonde hair poking just past his collar, adjusted his uniform before joining his companion at the wall. His rank was higher than the older man’s, but he seemed greener. “Vous vous inquiétez trop. Elle sait ce qu’elle fait.” He turned away from the desert, facing the older man. 

“Ce n’est pas juste.” _It isn’t fair._  


“C’est notre devoir.”  _It is our duty._  


The older man fell quiet, letting an uneasy silence rest between them. What was this plan? What was Clarel asking them to do? Her paws were silent as she padded forward, glaring at them, trying to better understand. The older man lifted his hand and brought it to his face. He slowly removed his heavy gauntlet, catching his partner’s eye as he closely examined his palm. “Je ne savais pas que _la magie du sang_ était notre devoir.”

Eirwen crouched back, eyes narrowed. Blood magic was _not_ part of their duty --unless, perhaps, he was referring to the Joining. It was supposed to be a secret, so he must have been unpleasantly surprised to learn that there was some element of ‘blood magic’ involved in being a Warden. Still, she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t seem right; something worse was going on.

She left the crack in the wall and scampered to the ground. The pain that formed in her wings had transferred to her arms, where it ached as she made her way deeper into the fortress. She foresaw several days of using minimal magic and laying in a hot bath back at Skyhold in her near future. 

At least this form was easy to miss, allowing her to sneak into a door left ajar and give her access to the interior of the fortress. She scuttled into a storeroom, and almost immediately scrambled back as an overwhelming gust of magic rushed through her.

She rubbed at her nose and took cover behind a heavy wooden crate. The pull on the Veil was so strong here, and she was already using so much mana that the extra strain made her head spin. She could do nothing but wait until it passed, the spell wearing through her senses so fast that it briefly rendered her deaf and blind.

When she could finally move again, the power had faded. She crept out from behind the crate, pupils expanding in the darkness all around her. Something sticky and thick stuck to her paws, and when she could focus enough to breathe right she tasted the unmistakable scent of blood.

Why here? 

But she could barely begin to investigate before she heard a low, threatening growl. The sound came from somewhere not of this plane, somewhere ghastly and wrong. She turned, taking in the shadows, looking for the source, but saw nothing until she caught a glimpse of light high above her.

This room appeared to be the lowest floor of a great tower. High above, light flickered through worn floorboards and demonic snarls hissed from another world. She remembered how she felt when the Inquisitor introduced her to a Rift, and felt a chill at the familiarity of this sensation. 

Shouting Orlesian voices followed, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. From what she could grasp, they sounded stressed. 

She ran past the pool of blood and into a narrow hallway lit with sputtering torchlight. She needed to find a way up without changing form again, as her mana was wearing thin despite the breaches in the Veil here. The hallway lead her to a junction with one way right and one left. She chose right based on nothing but a gut instinct and lead herself to the base of a long, spiral staircase. 

Her body was too small to easily bound the stairs, but without another option she forced herself to climb. Hundreds of years of travel on the ancient dwarven steps had worn the center of each stair down towards the stair beneath it, giving her an easier place to lift her tiny body from step to step.

Still, she was exhausted and sore by the time she reached the top of the staircase. No one passed her, but she knew whatever she’d witnessed at the base of the tower was over by now. 

She backtracked through the hallway, to where she figured the voices came from. A heavy, worn wooden door stood slightly ajar, just enough for her to slip inside the room and hide amid the darkness of old barrels and cracked bottles of ale. 

In the center of the room were two Warden mages and a smoking pile of ashes. “C’est d’accord. C’est d’accord. Nothing you did is wrong.” The speaker was a woman, probably mid- to late-forties, with curly brown hair and freckled arms. Her accent was strong, but when she spoke Common Eirwen understood. The woman hesitated, raising her arm for a moment, before pulling her companion into a gentle embrace. “It is okay. Shh, shh...” 

The other Warden didn’t move, didn’t even let himself fall into the first Warden’s arms. He was visibly young, fresh-faced with a dirty uniform and dark, thick-rimmed glasses. 

“It’s for the best, Will. You heard what the Commander said. This is our duty now. This will stop the Calling.” He said nothing, didn’t shake, didn’t move, just sat there staring forward as the other Warden held him closer. “Do you want to go back to the barracks? Get some rest?” She looked up toward the top of the tower, as if it held some answer. “It must be late. You should go to sleep.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to sleep?” His voice was sudden and sharp, his accent Fereldan. The air in the room changed, as if the power of his speech mutated the atmosphere. He pulled back, his eyes cold and bright. “You made me do this. This is wrong and you made me do it.”  


“William...”  


“I don’t want to be part of this. I don’t want this.” He pulled against her and her grip tightened. “Let me go. Let me _go_ , Rose.”

“I cannot do that. You are upset. You are not understanding--”  


“I know what we did. I know what _I_ did.” He wrenched away from her and stood, causing her to fall forward and catch herself on the floor. “I don’t want any of this.” He turned, and a sudden flash lit up the air. Sparks flew and Will fell forward, a devastating crack splitting the tense atmosphere as he landed hard on his right hand. The pile of ashes exploded, scattering thick dust around the room. He cried out, gasping and groaning, trying to escape the magic rope wrapped around his ankles.   


“William. Please.” The older Warden stood slowly and walked toward him, her footsteps loud on the floor. “Listen to yourself.” He gasped, cradling his wrist, writhing in the ashes. “This is for all of us. We made a sacrifice. We commit ourselves to this Organization. We are Grey Wardens, William.” She knelt beside him and he rolled on to his back. “If you are going to cause problems...”  


“I won’t. I won’t, I promise, I won’t. I won’t argue anymore I promise I’ll just --I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you ask me to.”  


She put her hand on his face and he closed his eyes. “I cannot believe you.” She drew a blade from her side with her free hand and put it against William’s neck.  


A powerful bolt of thunder shot through her shoulder, sending the blade spinning across the floor. She looked up at the source of the spell, to where Eirwen stood with her hand outstretched, sparks flickering around her fingers. She panted, the effort of breaking her form and using another spell wearing her already-thin store of mana even thinner. 

Rose crumpled, grabbing her injured shoulder, and her hold on William’s legs broke. He scrambled back, still nursing his wrist, and stared at Eirwen in surprise. “Who are you?”

“What is going on? What happened?” Eirwen kept her aim on Rose, but looked at William as she spoke. “What did you do?”  


“I... I don’t understand... where did you come from? Who are you?”  


“What did Clarel ask you to do, William?”  


Using his name caused him to focus, and he swallowed hard before attempting to speak.

“We are doing what we have always done.” Rose cut him off and Eirwen looked at her, magic still dancing around her fingertips. “We are protecting the world from the Blight.” She hissed in pain before going on. “You would not understand. No one could understand that has not seen what we have seen.”  


Eirwen’s eyebrows raised. “No. I imagine they could not.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, silver pin. It shone in the light of her magic, a griffon with pale blue paint on the tips of its wings. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You are her, you are Ferelden’s Commander...” Rose’s eyes widened before hardening, her features twisting into disgust. “Where have you been?”

“Tell me what’s going on.”  


“Blood magic,” William spoke up between short, sharp breaths. “They’re summoning demons.”   


“What?”  


“They’re going to go into the Deep Roads and kill Razikale and Lusacan before they get corrupted by the Blight. They think it will stop the Calling.” He shook his head, his voice shuddering. “They made me use blood magic to summon one of them. They... made me kill Colette...”  


Eirwen stepped back, trying desperately to slow her breathing. She lowered her hand, panic widening her grey eyes. “Wait... you are --you hear it too?” William nodded, and she felt her back hit the wall. “Why do you hear it? How can that...” She shook her head. “No. This won’t solve anything. This is --that’s just... that’s so _stupid_.” She looked around, at the doors, at the top of the tower.  

“They made me kill her.”  


Eirwen swallowed past the dryness in her mouth, her eyes drawn to a scattering of ash on the floor. “I need to stop this. You can’t use people like this, it’s not--” Pain jolted through her side suddenly and her words caught hard in her throat. With a shaking hand she touched her abdomen, where dark red blood spilled from a spike of ice shoved deep into the space below her ribcage. Rose had her arm raised as she stared hard at Eirwen.

“I cannot let you stop us. You must understand. We are doing what is right. We are saving lives.”  


“You’re killing innocent people,” Eirwen rasped. Weakness spread through her bones, radiating out from the hole in her stomach. “This can never be right.”  


“If you are truly one of us, then you must understand why this is necessary. Why we must do this.”

William hesitated, looking between them, before he went to Eirwen. “How can I help?”

“This isn’t what we do. This is --this is a perversion of our duty. Of your duty.” Eirwen fell back against the wall, barely able to hold herself up on the hard, cold stone. Rose shook as she got to her feet and walked towards them, one hand pressed to her shoulder.   


“You do not understand.” Eirwen touched the wound again, warm blood melting the ice around her fingers and soaking her clothes. “But now that you know, I cannot let you escape.”

Eirwen sunk down to her knees, and William sunk with her. He reached out, his hand careful as he wrapped his fingers around the spike of ice. “I can help you. I... I’m not a very good healer but I can try.” Eirwen glanced at him, then back at Rose. 

“I am sorry.” Ice crystallized in the air, more blade-sharp shards appearing as Rose aimed them at Eirwen.   


Eirwen attempted to fight back, forcing the last of her magic to hold the spikes back from bolting towards her. William tried to help her, but even the offer of his magic was too much for her to take hold of. He turned his focus toward Rose and hit her with a blast of spirit magic that sent her stumbling backward. The ice spikes flew in every direction, shattering barrels and bottles so that the room exploded with noise. 

With Rose distracted, Eirwen took her dagger from her hip and shoved it into William’s hands. “Tell them the demon did it.”

“What...” He reeled back, eyes wide with shock and pain. “No.”  


“If you don’t kill her, she’ll lie as soon as anyone sees what happened. She’ll tell them you attacked her.” Rose tried to collect herself and stepped forward, each step heavy with purpose. “You know they’ll believe her. I can’t help you anymore. I can use a spell to heal myself but I won’t be able to help you afterward.” She pushed him back. “Tell them the demon did it.”  


She used whatever mana she had let to shift again, a process that healed her wounds and returned her to the shape of a mouse. Scrambling, clumsy, aching, Eirwen ran for the door and half-fell, half-jumped back down the stairs.

At the base of the stairs she returned to the junction, turned down the unexplored path, and found herself outside of a locked door. 

Though she was always herself, taking on the form of an animal gave her the senses of that animal --for better or for worse. As a cat, her night vision sharpened and her whiskers gave her better balance. Her crow form could spot a target from hundreds of feet above, as long as she was flying during the day. As a mouse, she could pick up sounds high above the range of a person but nowhere near as low. Any kind of muffling, like a door or wall, made hearing what was on the other side almost impossible. 

She squeezed under the door and popped out into a room that was empty save for two people --a man in distinctly Tevinter robes with garish facial hair, and the Warden-Commander of Orlais herself. They spoke in low voices, so she crept closer in the shadows to hear what they were saying. 

The escape left her tired, left her lungs aching for air and her body sore. Adrenaline ruled her now, so as she settled down to eavesdrop she could feel pain and heartache returning. She pushed the feelings away, choosing to slip further into the simple mind of her current shape. 

“What does it sound like? Your Calling?” The Tevinter stood at the end of a long table, hands held behind his back, eyes focused on Clarel. She sat in a tall chair at the other end, one hand wrapped around a bottle of something murky.  


It began with nightmares. Every Warden had nightmares, but they only grew worse with time. Eirwen’s dreams were reminders of what she’d done, of the mistakes she’d made and the people she’d wronged. She also saw the chaos of the Deep Roads, the sickening, oozing body of the Broodmother and her ravenous children. Her loved ones became warped versions of themselves, twisted caricatures that abused her in ways their true selves never would. The dreams were lessened with alcohol, dulled to confusion. Connecting to the true Fade, to the realm of her peaceful dreams, had grown more and more difficult over the years, to the point that she could scarcely manage it at all if the Veil was thick.

Then came the panic, the twisting sickness in her gut that eroded to paranoia over time. A burnt tree was no longer simply a random act of nature; it was an omen. If someone looked at her wrong they were obviously doing it because they could read her mind, because they knew how sick she was. This stage, for her, had only barely begun. If she held on to her own sense of logic she hoped she could stave it off. 

“I hear music,” Clarel said, quiet and slow. “Not always, and it is not close. It sounds distant, as if it is on the other side of a door or at the end of a long hallway.” She shifted her weight and raised her head, though she kept her gaze on the far wall. “Before I go to sleep, it is there. When I am alone, when I have nothing to distract me, it comes in as a quiet dirge.”   


She took a long, deep breath before going on. “And I hear the whispers. It is the voice of the Old God, speaking to me when the music is loud enough to hear. It comes from everywhere.”

“It’s all in your head though.” The Tevinter frowned at her. “Can you not see that?”  


"Have you ever been afraid, Erimond?” He said nothing, and she went on. “Fear is in your head. It is not tangible. You cannot touch it. But it is still real.”  


He ran his hand down over his beard, a small, scraggly thing with poorly-shaved sides. 

“This will help?” Clarel’s voice rose in pitch, hopelessness sinking in. “You believe we can stop this? Using your plan?”  


He nodded firmly. “Of course. It will be difficult, and it will take many lives even beyond those needed for the ritual, but it will save your Order.” He looked at her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

Clarel laughed bitterly. “What other choice do I have?”

He backed up, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised his chin. “We will have another ritual in two days’ time. I anticipate trouble from that conscript of yours. Stroud has been gathering allies...” He said the Senior Warden’s name like a curse, like it tasted foul in his mouth. “I strongly suspect he is working with the Inquisition.”

“They are misguided.” Clarel closed her eyes. “We should send a convoy to Skyhold to explain the situation.”  


“You think they will listen?” Erimond scoffed. “They are fanatics. They follow a Qunari brute calling herself the Herald of Andraste. They would never listen to us, to you.” He sighed, lowered his arms from his chest, and walked around the table to sit by Clarel’s side. “You are doing the right thing, Clarel. You are protecting your Order. History will thank you for saving countless lives from future Blights.”  


Eirwen desperately wished she could shift into her normal form and explain why everything about this was wrong. She felt trapped in this shape, unable to do her own duty and speak sense to Clarel. 

There was a rapid, loud knock at the door, and all three of them turned. “Warden-Commander, you are needed in the Western Auxiliary Tower.” 

Clarel looked at Erimond again before standing slowly. “Come in.” 

A middle-aged Warden pushed open the door and looked between them. She straightened. “Something terrible has happened, Commander. You have to see it for yourself.”

“Very well. Magister Erimond, we will continue our conversation tomorrow morning. Get some rest.”  


“Happily, Warden-Commander.” He bowed with a dramatic flourish and slipped out of the room through a door on the far side. Clarel left, letting the other Warden lead her away.  


Eirwen took her cue to leave. She left the room and followed a trail of stray, open mana to a storage closet. A single, almost-empty bottle of lyrium provided her with just enough energy to shift back into a crow.

She would need several days to reach Skyhold, but she had to get back as soon as possible. The Inquisitor needed to know what was going on. Everything she’d seen left her numb, shielding her from the deadly cold of the desert night. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus on anything but pushing ahead.

Yet there was a small tinge of relief to it all: if even a new recruit like William was hearing the Calling, then maybe all of it was a farce. Maybe she had more time than she thought.


	12. Basic Necessities

Eirwen returned to Skyhold well after midnight following several nights of long, difficult travel. She flew in through her own window, peeled off her filthy clothing, and immediately crawled into bed.

But, as if it knew what she’d seen, the paranoia of the Blight sickness grasped at her and held her from the sleep she so desperately needed. What if this was no longer her room? In her absence, the Inquisitor probably assumed she was gone for good and gave her room to someone else. Maybe that person was going to return any minute now and make her leave. Maybe she was in trouble for being gone for so long. The rest of the Inquisition had to know they couldn’t trust her, maybe they even wanted her dead after what happened in the Exalted Plains. She couldn’t sleep here, she shouldn’t even be here.

Groaning, Eirwen sat up in her bed and groped in the darkness for the bottle of liquor that always sat on her nightstand. She brought it to her lips and drank deeply, the burn somehow comforting as it cut through her panic and ate away at the paranoia until it quieted to a dull, ominous feeling of discomfort. The trade-off was a loss of desire to sleep, a need to move that drew her up and out of her bed.

She tugged on a nightdress that hung loosely over her body, giving her a shape not unlike that of a rectangle. The bitter cold of Skyhold made her pull on several layers of sweaters and a pair of warm boots. She looked odd, but she didn’t care. She cared even less after she took another long drink from her flask.

The hallway tottered around her as she stumbled into the main hall. She didn’t know what she was looking for. If she went to the tavern, there would probably still be people there that she could get more alcohol from. But as soon as she stepped outside, the freezing cold pushed her back in. 

Instead, she went towards the library. Dorian usually had wine on him, at least, and maybe he would still be awake. She didn’t make it up the stairs, though; the light from Solas’s candle distracted her and drew her towards the center of the rotunda. 

“Hey,” she mumbled, and he stood as soon as he saw her. She leaned against the doorframe, holding her flask like a baby blanket. “Why are you still up?”

Solas frowned and started to move, but she wandered to the other side of his desk before he met her there. “Eirwen. When did you get back?”

“You know.” She shrugged. “Recently. Like two hours ago, or something.”

“You are... what happened?”

“Um, it’s, it’s secret.” She rubbed her nose and Solas crossed his arms over his chest. “I have to talk to Adaar first.”

“Shall I wake her?”

“No, I’ll just tell her in the morning. I think it’s kind of already morning, yeah?”

“Yes. It’s very late.” He sighed and put a slip of paper into the book he was reading to hold his place, then closed it and pushed it aside. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You are visibly exhausted.” He looked away, then relaxed his posture and met her glazed gaze. “Let us at least go for a walk, then.”

“It’s cold outside...” Then warmth spread through her body, as if in response, and she let out a satisfied groan.

Solas snorted. “I’ll keep you warm, lethallan. Come.” He offered her his arm. She didn’t seem to notice, so after an awkward heartbeat of waiting he let it drop to his side. They walked outside to the main hall and turned towards the garden before Solas stopped. “Wait. Stay right here, give me a moment.”

“Oh, okay.” Eirwen watched him backtrack. She took another drink and wandered to the mosaics stuck on the wall near the main door. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness as she leaned in close, examining the detail on their metal surface. Solas’s footsteps drew her focus, and she watched him cross the room with a loaf of bread in his arm. “What’s that?”

He looked down at it, as if unsure how to respond. “Bread?”

“Why?”

“Because I imagine you have not had much to eat in the past few days.”

“I don’t want to eat just plain bread.”

“I have cheese as well.”

“Do you have a knife?”

“I am almost certain you do.”

She smiled, then nodded. “You’re right. I do.” This time when he offered his arm, she took it. 

The cold air felt refreshing now instead of miserable. Several pale orange torches cast dancing shadows around the garden, making the trees and statues look vibrant even in the dark. All of Skyhold seemed asleep except for them. They walked in silence, listening to the quiet creaking bugs and critters of the night. Even their footsteps on the lush green grass seemed muted. 

“I’m surprised so many things can live here,” Eirwen said eventually. “It’s so cold.”

Solas nodded and looked up at the trees. “Normally a place like this would be much quieter, as I’m sure you know, but the thinness of the Veil attracts a variety of wildlife.”

“It seems like we only talk where the Veil is thin...”

He smiled. “It is comfortable, is it not?”

“I feel like I can breathe better here.” She inhaled deeply. “There’s less pressure all around.”

He stopped walking in front of a bench, and so did she. He gestured at it and she took longer to sit down than she should have, fixing and adjusting her nightclothes until they felt less like a tent on her thin frame. Solas handed her the block of cheese and sat down beside her with the bread in his lap.

They fell into silence once again as they ate, listening to the sounds around them. She found that once she started eating, she could hardly slow down. He was right that she’d eaten almost nothing over the past couple of days, and functioning mostly on alcohol was probably a mistake. She tried to share with him, but he didn’t seem particularly interested and she was happy to eat almost all of it.

“Thank you, for this.” She gestured at him with the knife. “I didn’t realize I needed it.” 

“You forgot you need to eat food?”

“Sort of.” He was joking, she could tell, but it was a fair point. “It seems like I eat everything or nothing. If you drink enough, you aren’t really that hungry, right?”

“I try not to drink so much I forget basic necessities.”

“You’re missing out.” She took out her flask again and he sighed as she drank. Then she held it out to him, and after some hesitation, he took a drink.

He coughed violently and pushed it back at her, earning himself her cackling laugh. “That is foul.” He sputtered and covered his mouth, shaking his head. “What is that?”

“I’m not really sure anymore, I kind of just pour whatever into it.”

“Eirwen!”

“What?”

“You’re not even savoring the taste... you’re just drinking until you get sick.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” 

“Why?”

She considered this, brows knitting together. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then took a deep breath and tried to start again. “It helps with, uh, things.”

“Things?” He sat forward, trying to get her to look at him.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it. It’s... Warden things.” She couldn’t say any more. She sighed and sat back against the bench. “I’m sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment, and she swore she could feel him thinking. When he spoke his voice was cold and cautious, and he did not look at her. “Why are you loyal to them?”

“To the Wardens?” She shifted, tilting her head, confused. “Because... I am one?”

He said nothing, just took in a deep breath before standing. “You should get some rest.”

“You don’t get to ask a question like that and not clarify yourself.”

“Eirwen...”

“Solas, seriously. Why did you ask me that?”

He stepped away, arms held behind his back, his eyes cast away from her toward the trees on the other side of the garden. “I am trying to understand what attracts you to the Grey Wardens, but I can’t.” She said nothing, just waited for him to go on like she knew he would. He turned around, looking at her now. “You are clever, charismatic, and extremely talented. You are a rare spirit in this world and I cannot fathom why someone like you would be part of something like that.”

She took a drink and kept watching him, saying nothing as he went on.

“The Grey Wardens are a testament to ignorance. Throughout history, they have fought without any attempt to understand what they are fighting. They make no effort to get to the cause behind the Blight, to why they are fighting. Instead, they just fight with no concept of whether what they are doing is actually helping.” He sighed in frustration and threw his hands up. “And thousands of people have died because of their commitment to ignorance.”

Eirwen crossed her arms over her chest and lay one leg over the other. “And how would you do things differently, Solas?” She kept her tone level and calm.

“I would actually study my enemy, for one. I would not submit to the idea that simply because something is strange and dangerous we cannot understand or control it, and therefore it must be destroyed.”

“And you don’t think any Warden has done that? Ever? In the history of the Order?”

“Not truly, no. Even if one of them did want to understand the Blight, I believe they were held back by the mistrust of magic that permeates your society. The solution the Wardens have come to, as I understand it, is that a group of mages went too far in their quest for knowledge, and that the pursuit of understanding their world led to its destruction. The entire idea highlights this world’s contempt for curiosity and wisdom. It punishes people for trying to understand themselves and their world. It is absurd, and damaging, and stupid.” 

“But... I’m different, somehow?”

“You...” He looked at her, took in her disbelieving expression, and seemed to deflate.

“I was born in an alienage, and I grew up in the Circle. If anyone were to have this... contempt about magic that you’re taking about, wouldn’t it be me? If anything, being a Warden was what taught me not to hate my magic.” She saw a flash of the ashes at Adamant, heard Clarel and Erimond talking about the ritual. “The Wardens have no problem engaging in magical practices that most others would frown upon. Trust me.”

“If that is the case, then why has there been no progress made towards understanding the true cause of the Blight?”

“Maybe it’s just more complicated than we thought. Maybe we just haven’t found the right place in the Deep Roads, or maybe it is known but it’s locked away in the halls of Weisshaupt. Maybe we could do better, maybe you’re right that we’ve held ourselves back. But I can promise you that I am not special or exceptional. I have met Wardens that are wise and curious and I have met Wardens that are very proud of their ignorance. They --we’re-- just people, Solas.”

He relaxed his arms, letting them drop to his sides, and nodded. “Ir abelas, lethallan. I... I should not have spoken to you like that. My impression of the Wardens is very negative, but I have a great deal of respect for you. I only meant to express my confusion, because it is difficult for me to reconcile what I know of you as a person with what I know of your Order.”

“Yes, well, you can criticize something without being an ass.”

He snorted. “I will try to keep that in mind.”

She looked down at the ground, her face falling, and breathed in slowly before looking back at him. “How do you manage to be so content with being alone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please don’t... don’t take this the wrong way, because I think it’s genuinely admirable, but... you keep yourself at such a distance from everyone. You said you wandered around before joining the Inquisition, and even here you mostly keep to yourself. It doesn’t seem to bother you though. You hold no loyalty to anything, you eschew anything organized, but you don’t seem sad or lonely.”

He chuckled, but the sound was mirthless. “I suppose I should be glad I don’t give off the impression I am hopelessly lonely.”

“Are you?”

“Not usually.” She held out the flask to him and after some hesitation he took another drink. He coughed and sputtered again. “That is still foul.”

“You’re welcome.” He sat down beside her again and closed his eyes. He leaned back, letting his head loll over the back of the bench. She watched him for a moment before relaxing as well, cradling her flask in her hands. 

She set her gaze on the stars high above her. The moon was bright, but not like it was when she went to Adamant. She could see the wide streak of the galactic edge cut across the sky, littering twinkling lights and star dust over the dark canvas. “You know,” she said eventually, disturbing the comfortable quiet between them. “If you really don’t want to be lonely, you should spend more time with other people.”

“I could say the same to you, lethallan,” he said without looking at her. “You could replace your flask with company.”

She snickered. “I wish I could.”

He lifted his head and looked at her until their eyes met. “You can. If you would have me, I could help you.”

“Are you going to be less of an asshole?”

He grimaced. “I can try.”

“For me, Solas.” Her tone was sarcastic and light, but still it made his expression soften. She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip, studying the way the torchlight cast his sharp jaw and cheekbones in dark relief. She could just barely see the spattering of freckles across his nose and under his eyes. 

“Even if you don’t think so,” he murmured. “I believe you are exceptional.”

“Now you’re just being charming.”

He laughed, and she smiled as she leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. They sat like that for a long time, long enough for her breathing to slow and then his, until the first glimpse of dawn peeked over the mountaintops and brought with it the first gusts of morning wind that chilled them both in their sleep.


End file.
